A Scandalous Scot Page 2

  Five years ago that had changed. He’d become the 9th Earl of Denbleigh, with all the duties attendant to the position. At first he was woefully inept at the job, but he’d learned quickly.

  Now, scandal hung onto his coattails with tenacious fingers.

  He couldn’t go back to politics. He was unwelcome both in London and Edinburgh. He couldn’t even go back to work at the distilleries. He’d handpicked and approved every single one of his managers. Dismissing one simply because he was bored and needed purpose hardly seemed proper.

  What the hell was he going to do with the rest of his life?

  “Then tell me why Ballindair, at least,” Andrew said.

  “It’s far enough away that they won’t gossip about me. If they do, I don’t have to hear it.”

  Andrew’s mouth quirked in a half smile.

  “Gossip has always followed you, Morgan. You’re cryptic, which only makes people curious. The more curious people are, the more they speculate among themselves.”

  “I’ve never found it necessary to concern myself with the actions of my fellow man,” he said.

  Andrew’s smile broadened. “That’s because you’re also an independent bastard. You really don’t care about other people.”

  Since the Countess of Denbleigh had screamed that same accusation at him numerous times, Morgan turned and studied the Scottish morning.

  Instead of the broom and rocks, he saw the face of his wife. A beauty, a magnificent porcelain goddess come to life, and as cold as a statue. Except, of course, to any man but him. He pushed away thoughts of Lillian. She didn’t deserve any of his attention, especially now.

  The noise of the carriage wheels on the macadam road was a constant, comforting sound. The whistling cry of a curlew made him smile, reminding him of days he’d spent walking through the moor.

  Ahead lay the MacCraig Bog. As a boy, he’d been fascinated by tales of his ancestors, the Murderous MacCraigs, who lured their enemies into the bog and watched, gleefully, as they were trapped. His family wasn’t a hardy group but they’d been bloodthirsty.

  They were no longer thought of as the Murderous MacCraigs, but as a family who worked to protect and defend Scotland and on whom great honor had been bestowed.

  His father had been a representative peer and Keeper of the Great Seal of Scotland on three occasions. Thomas MacCraig had been invested as a Fellow in the Royal Society, praised for his mathematical genius, and sought after for his cogent advice.

  A damn hard individual to emulate.

  Even as a father he had been perfect. Thomas made time for him, took him fishing and boating on the Spey. They’d climbed the hills around Ballindair, and at the peak sat and viewed the scene before them. Sometimes they’d eaten their lunch as the carpet of broom colored their world yellow.

  His breath caught as he remembered the smell of peat, the melody of burred voices and rolling laughter. He recalled the cold, the bite of it against his skin and his teeth as he grinned. A large warm hand pressed down on his head, ruffling his hair. A voice called him laddie, an appellation he hadn’t heard since his boyhood.

  He knew why this homecoming was more difficult than any other. This was the first time he’d been home since his father’s death, and he did so in disgrace.

  His father had imbued in him three things: an intense love of his country, a sense of his own purpose, and the desire to live an honorable life.

  How many times had he been told people would be watching him because he’d be the Earl of Denbleigh? People would be matching their behavior to his. He’d be an example to those who depended on the MacCraigs. All Scotland, and perhaps the world, would see him as the embodiment of what they’d become: no longer the Murderous MacCraigs, but honorable men.

  Morgan was the fulcrum on which his family’s reputation balanced.

  Yet he’d willingly destroyed everything with a few strokes of a pen.

  What would his father have said? He might have remarked: You could do nothing less, son. But he doubted it. His imagination furnished his father standing before him, his voice a deep baritone, the frown on his face leaving no doubt of his feelings.

  In the hundreds of years since the first MacCraig planted his sword in the ground and claimed this land, no one has shamed the family to the degree you’ve managed.

  The 8th Earl of Denbleigh, however, was dead. In his place was Morgan, 9th earl and disgrace of the family.

  “Good God, Morgan. Is that Ballindair?”

  He turned his head to see Andrew’s gaze intent on the approach to his home.

  The castle stood in the middle of four hundred fifty acres of woodland and farmland and was constructed of beige stone that, in certain light, appeared white. Built in an H configuration, Ballindair had a large rectangular main structure flanked by two smaller wings, each ending in a large tower whose tops looked like upside down funnels, painted black.

  Two laigh biggins—low buildings—sat behind the castle and contained workrooms and stables. In addition to formal gardens, a walled terrace led down to the River Tullie, before it descended past Strath Dalross and the MacCraig Forest to join the River Spey.

  Once he arrived, the flag of the MacCraigs would fly on the right front tower—the Laird’s Tower—to indicate he was in residence. A conceit his father had picked up from the Queen.

  “You told me about the castle, of course,” Andrew was saying, “but I’d no idea the thing was so bloody huge. And damn impressive.”

  “It’s home,” he said, hoping to cut off his friend’s rhapsodic comments.

  Along the approach to Ballindair, he could envision a line of his ancestors, all MacCraig lairds, feet braced apart and planted in the earth, cudgels at the ready, facing him in censure.

  Damn it all.

  “It’s magnificent,” Andrew was saying. “When was it built?”

  “Fourteenth century, thereabouts.”

  The first stones had been laid in the Year of Our Lord, thirteen hundred twenty-six. As the only surviving child of the earl, he’d been required to memorize every fact about Ballindair.

  Andrew sent him a sideways look. “It isn’t easy for you, is it?”

  “Coming home?” He forced a smile to his face. “It’s just a place.”

  Not just a place. Ballindair was the scene of his family’s honor, where their history began, and the citadel of their pride. Coming home was the single most difficult experience of his life to date, and given everything he’d endured in the last two years, that was an admission.

  But one he’d never make to another living soul.

  Chapter 2

  RULES FOR STAFF: When being addressed, do not look away, but keep your attention on the person speaking.

  Jean blinked until her eyes cleared, staring at the slatted back of the bureau. The French Nun hadn’t come. Instead, she’d fallen asleep propped against the wall in the earl’s bedchamber.

  Oh, dear God. No. Dear God, no.

  She slid on her shoes, tied them, then stood, walking to the window and pushing open the curtains. She didn’t need a clock to tell her she’d overslept. The morning sun was bright in the sky.

  Panic clawed its way up her throat.

  She raced from the room, across the hall, and down the curved steps, her feet flying as fast as her thoughts.

  What excuse could she give her aunt? What could she possibly say?

  A ghost stepped out of the shadows. Just when she didn’t have time, she saw a ghost, one who stood in front of her and nearly dared her to ignore him.

  She couldn’t stop to admire him now.

  Instead of moving through him, or the ghost stepping aside, she collided with a solid chest jacketed in fine wool. Two arms reached out to steady her, but her momentum toppled them both to the dusty stone floor, Jean landing on top.

  Dark blue eyes the color of a Highland night stared up at her.

  For a long moment she stared back, horrified and transfixed. She could feel his heart thudding below her, and
the solidness of his body against hers.

  “You’re not a ghost,” she said breathlessly.

  “I am not,” he said in a clipped English accent.

  He grabbed both her wrists, pushed up and rolled with her.

  A second later their positions were reversed and she was pinned beneath him. The savagery of his look made her pause for a moment before she began pushing at his chest. Not very successfully as it turned out, since he was still holding her wrists and didn’t seem inclined to budge.

  “Will you let me go?”

  He might not be a ghost, but he was definitely a stranger.

  She twisted her wrists. He had her firmly caught.

  “Will you let me up?” she asked, meeting his scowl with a frown of her own.

  “Morgan, you really should let her go,” a man said, humor in his tone.

  She glanced up to find another stranger standing there, smiling at both of them.

  A voice—the very last voice she wanted to hear—said, “What is going on here?”

  Oh dear.

  Jean closed her eyes, chided herself for her lack of courage, then forced herself to look up. Standing next to the stranger was her aunt, a look of shock on her face. Three maids, one of them Catriona, stood behind the housekeeper, each looking entirely too interested in the scene.

  The stranger released her wrists, got to his feet and began to dust himself off.

  Her aunt abruptly sank into a curtsy. “Your Lordship, we didn’t expect you for a number of days.”

  Your Lordship? Jean’s heart plummeted to her feet. For an instant she was light-headed. She knew better than to faint—no one would revive her. Worse, she’d probably receive a lecture for littering the floor.

  Standing, she shook out her skirt. Perhaps she was still asleep behind the bureau and this was just a dream. A quick look at her aunt’s face proved that to be a lie.

  “What are you doing, Jean?” her aunt asked, looking straight at her.

  She tried to answer, to form the words, but the ability to speak had abruptly disappeared.

  “I believe the girl ran into him,” the second man said, grinning. “They both went down rather spectacularly.”

  Her aunt glanced at her again. Jean nodded. There, she could nod at least.

  “Your Lordship, I apologize most humbly for the behavior of my maid,” her aunt said.

  “If this is the way you train your maids in decorum,” he said, brushing at his dusty sleeves, “I fear for the state of my home.”

  Her aunt flushed, before again curtsying, so low that Jean feared she would not be able to rise again, given her girth.

  “She will be suitably punished, Your Lordship.”

  Oh dear.

  Her aunt turned to her. “What are you even doing here, Jean?”

  What should she say? What could she say?

  She took a deep breath, faced them all, and lied. “I thought to get a start on the cleaning,” she said. “I knew what a monumental task was before us.”

  God whispered in her conscience, and her stomach soured as she spoke. Or perhaps her incipient nausea was simply because her aunt was staring straight through her, eyes searching for the truth.

  Jean managed a weak smile, but it had no effect on Aunt Mary’s intent look.

  She glanced over at the earl. His eyes were narrowed, his lips thinned. His face seemed hewn from a block of wood—a block of angry wood.

  The situation called for a bit of subservience.

  “Forgive me, Your Lordship,” she said, curtsying. “I should have been more careful.”

  He didn’t say a word, the loathsome cur. Nor did his expression ease.

  Neither did her aunt’s, but now there was a look on her face that Jean didn’t like one bit. Compassion was rarely evident in the housekeeper’s expression, but it was there now, as if Aunt Mary were apologizing in advance for having to release her from her position at Ballindair.

  If she had to leave, what would happen to her?

  She stared down at the floor, frozen by the thought.

  “Since your maid is so conscientious, can I assume my suite is ready?” the earl asked.

  Jean glanced up. At Aunt Mary’s look, she shook her head.

  “Not yet, sir, but it shall be shortly,” the housekeeper said. “May I offer you some refreshments? Breakfast, perhaps?”

  Jean’s stomach rumbled at that moment, loud enough that the other maids giggled, even Catriona. The blond man smiled, but the earl looked as if the sign of her hunger was another mark against her. Her aunt just sighed.

  “Do you feed your maids, Mrs. MacDonald?”

  “Yes, Your Lordship.”

  He studied Jean, as if seeking out more flaws. She faced him resolutely. If he meant to shame her, then he was two years too late. If he meant to discover all her transgressions, then he’d better have a ledger handy. She had a great many of them to be recorded.

  After a long, speechless moment, he headed for the door, his companion at his side.

  At the doorway, however, he turned. “Who did you think I was?” he asked, looking at her. “Which ghost?”

  “The Herald,” she said. “But you didn’t have pipes.”

  He only nodded.

  As he left, she had the oddest thought that they’d had a secret conversation, one no one else understood.

  “Get up there and clean, Jean,” her aunt said. “You’re acting as daft as a yett on a windy day. Be about your tasks, and we’ll talk later.”

  Then, with a wave of her hand, she was out the door, after the earl and his companion, leaving the four maids staring at each other.

  Jean turned, leading the way back up the curving steps and wishing she had the courage to put toads in the Earl of Denbleigh’s bed.

  “Did you see her?” Andrew said. “What a glorious creature!”

  Morgan glanced over at his friend. “I thought her plain and without merit.”

  Andrew sent him an incredulous look. “Didn’t you see her eyes? I’ve never seen blue eyes like that.”

  “They’re brown.”

  “Not the mouse,” Andrew said. “The other maid. The glorious one with blond hair.”

  “And blue eyes.” Evidently, there would be some occupation for Andrew at Ballindair. “Leave my maids alone,” the earl said.

  Andrew smiled. “You want her for yourself,” he said.

  “Good God, no.”

  He was done with women for a while. He wanted nothing to do with them. He didn’t want to be in their company. He didn’t want to hear them speak. He didn’t even want to see one. Especially Mrs. MacDonald, who was following him at a winded pace.

  Resigned, he stopped and faced the housekeeper. Before she could begin an involved apology, he said, “Would you send word to Mr. Seath I’ve arrived, Mrs. MacDonald. I’d like to speak to him as soon as possible.”

  Fear spread over her face, and he should have reassured her his meeting with his steward had nothing to do with her performance—or lack of it. But he remained silent, wishing she would do the same.

  It was not to be.

  “Forgive me, Your Lordship, we were told you were not to arrive for a matter of days,” she said, wringing her hands. “Otherwise, I would have had everything in readiness.”

  “Forgive me, Mrs. MacDonald, for failing to advise you of my plans.”

  The woman paled. He felt the bite of his conscience, not to mention the sensation that all the MacCraigs lined up on the moor below were uttering curses for his lack of care of a kinsman.

  A MacDonald or not, he thought, she was employed at Ballindair. That made her his responsibility and a member of his clan. Besides, he hated one woman, but not this woman.

  “I was wrong not to send you word,” he said, to her obvious surprise. “No doubt the early hour is the reason for my poor mood. If you could provide my friend with breakfast, I’d be grateful.”

  “Of course,” she said, smiling. “Of course. If you’ll follow me.”


  He stepped aside to let her pass, not commenting that he still knew the location of the dining room. Instead, he kept silent, following the woman like a trained sheep, all the while ignoring Andrew’s smile.

  “Isn’t he the most handsome man you’ve ever seen?” Catriona said, after the men were gone.

  Sally and Susan, the other maids, tittered.

  Jean turned to look at her sister. “Are you daft? He’s a pompous prig. Or didn’t you notice how he looked at all of us?”

  Catriona smiled. “You’d just knocked him down, Jean. That gave him a right to be angry. But even angry, the man is a handsome devil.”

  Devil was right.

  “His companion was more pleasing,” Jean said, remembering the blond-haired man.

  “He’s short,” Catriona said, dismissing him. “The earl, however, is tall, with the most wonderful broad shoulders. Don’t you think so?”

  “I didn’t notice,” she said, beginning to mount the steps.

  “Did you notice his eyes? They were as blue as mine.”

  “They’re darker.” She’d been close enough to see the black ring around them.

  Sally and Susan whispered among themselves. No doubt they, too, were transfixed by the Earl of Denbleigh’s appearance.

  She held her tongue, but it wasn’t easy.

  At the first landing she turned to Sally. The woman had been at Ballindair for two decades, and despite her age, was one of the best workers.

  “Which room do you want?” she asked, deferring to the older woman.

  “Susan and I will take the sitting room,” Sally said. “You and Catriona can clean the earl’s bedchamber.”

  Susan smiled brightly at that, and Jean knew why. The earl would notice the condition of the bedchamber before the sitting room. If the room wasn’t cleaned perfectly, she’d be in even more disfavor with her aunt, not to mention the earl.

  She nodded, reaching for a bucket containing their supplies, and entered the room, Catriona beside her, empty-handed.

  “I don’t care what you say,” Catriona said. “I think he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”