The Texan Duke Read online

  She gathered her cloak around her and stepped out of the vehicle.

  Connor approached her, walking slowly, almost like a large feral cat stalking a bird.

  “Stop that,” she said.

  He stopped.

  “If you think I’m going to be intimidated by that look, you’re wrong. I’ve faced down the Duchess of Lothian all my life, so I know all about people who act all aristocratic.”

  “I thought she was a crosspatch, but according to Sam, she’s very agreeable.”

  She’d never heard the Duchess of Lothian described as agreeable by anyone.

  He frowned at her, which was marginally better than that glare.

  “Besides, I don’t act all aristocratic.”

  “Then stop looking at me like that.”

  He shook his head. “Where the hell have you been?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “You stop doing that,” he said. “Repeating what I say. Just answer me.”

  It was her turn to frown.

  “Is it any of your concern, Your Grace?”

  “You were gone three days.”

  “I know how long I was gone,” she said.

  She did wish he would move back, away. He was large and rather formidable up close.

  “Elsbeth.”

  “You stop doing that. You shouldn’t say my name like that. It’s entirely too personal.”

  He grinned at her, which was worse than the glare and the frown.

  She grabbed her reticule and valise and tried—she really did—to get past Connor. He merely took the valise from her.

  “Why did you go to Inverness?”

  She turned toward the path at the back of the house. She would talk to Douglas later when she didn’t have an irritated/charming/annoying duke on her hands.

  “I went to see if I could buy a property,” she said. “I need a place to live.”

  “You live here.”

  She sent him a sideways glance. “For now, but not for very long. You’ve made that abundantly clear.”

  He was frowning at her again.

  She frowned right back.

  The stableboy had disappeared, and the driver was walking the carriage into the stable. Perhaps it was better if they had their confrontation out here, where there was no one listening.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” he asked.

  She hadn’t expected that question. Nor had she anticipated seeing that expression on his face, almost as if she’d insulted him. Or worse, done something that had wounded him.

  How ridiculous. She hadn’t wounded Connor McCraight.

  “Well?”

  “Am I to tell you my comings and goings now, Your Grace? One night in my bed does not give you that power.”

  “You were a virgin, Elsbeth.”

  She looked at him incredulously. “Thank you for informing me of that fact, Your Grace. I was well aware.”

  “You should’ve told me.”

  “You should have anticipated,” she said, annoyed. “Or did you think I took every visitor to Bealadair to my bed?”

  He pushed his hat back on his head, his mouth thinned, and he looked as if he were biting back words. He really didn’t need to watch his comments around her. She was prepared for anything he might have to say.

  Besides, she’d already gotten her tears out of the way on the way home.

  “Why did you take me to your bed?”

  “As I remember it, Your Grace, it was a mutual decision. You needn’t act as if you were powerless to refuse my invitation.”

  “Damn close to it.”

  She blinked at him, startled. A warmth began to blossom in the pit of her stomach. No, she was not going to be flattered by such an admission. Nor was she going to be amused by his exasperated expression.

  Good, if he was feeling the least bit confused about their relationship, it was only a small fraction of what she was feeling.

  “I don’t want you to leave,” he said. “At least, not until the house is sold.”

  “You don’t get a choice about when I leave, Your Grace. I have my future to consider.”

  He removed his hat, threaded his fingers through his hair, replaced his hat, and nodded to her.

  “I know that. I’m just hoping you stick around.”

  “As entertainment, Your Grace? No.”

  “Dammit, Elsbeth, that’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  In seconds he was there, in front of her, his arms around her. She didn’t have time to protest before he bent his head to kiss her.

  Anyone could have seen them, but she didn’t think of that in the next moment. She didn’t care that it was afternoon, that the staff would be milling about, that Addy could see them from her kitchen window. The duchess, the whole family could view them, but it wasn’t something she thought about.

  She couldn’t think of anything when Connor was kissing her.

  The world exploded in a cloud of shattering stone.

  A startled yelp escaped her as Connor pushed her into a nearby bush. She lay there trying to make sense of what had just happened.

  She brushed the snow off her face and began to right herself.

  Connor reached her and extended his hand. She took it and stood, only then realizing that another of the statues had fallen, this time barely missing Connor.

  If he hadn’t moved to kiss her, he would’ve been crushed by the stone.

  Shock kept her speechless.

  Connor was looking up at the roof, his hands on his hips. Slowly he turned his head to look at her.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded.

  Their gazes met.

  “Damn lucky you’re nearly irresistible, Elsbeth.”

  There was that warmth again, but it was offset by a sensation so cold that she felt frozen to her toes.

  “I inspected the roof,” she said, staring at the chunks of stone. This statue couldn’t be repaired. It hadn’t fallen in a snowdrift but had, instead, shattered on the gravel path. “The day after the first statue fell. I checked all the statues. All of them were fine. None of them were cracked. Their bases were all intact.”

  She didn’t come out and say the words. Neither did he. She would inspect the roof again to be sure, but it looked as if the fallen statue was no accident.

  Someone wanted Connor dead.

  The thought chilled her through, enough that she stretched out her gloved hand and gripped his arm.

  “What becomes of Bealadair if something happens to you?” she asked.

  He looked down at her.

  For a moment she wondered if he would answer. Should she apologize for the question? Or were they just going to pretend that someone wasn’t trying to harm him?

  “The ghillie hadn’t been hunting,” she said. “Nor had his men. Someone shot you, Connor. And, as much as I would like to think it was an accident, someone pushed that statue off the roof.”

  “I’ve made my will,” he said. “My mother and my sisters will inherit everything I own, from the ranch to the property here in Scotland.”

  That didn’t make any sense, then. Why would anyone want to kill Connor when there was no reward for it?

  “You could be the target, Elsbeth.”

  They looked at each other.

  “You were at Castle McCraight with me. Someone could have easily been shooting at you.” He glanced toward the shattered statue. “That could have struck you.”

  She wrapped her arms around her waist in an effort to warm herself. It wasn’t the weather that chilled her, but the thought that someone wanted one of them dead.

  “Why? I don’t own anything. I don’t have any power. I can’t change anyone’s life.”

  “Don’t you have a legacy?”

  She nodded. “From my parents,” she said. “And the bequest from Gavin.”

  “What happens to it in the case of your death?”

  “I don’t know.” She hadn’t made arrangements. She didn’t have a w
ill. She’d never even discussed the matter with Mr. Glassey.

  Neither one of them said anything, but all too soon the moment to speak was gone, swept away by the sudden appearance of Addy and two footmen.

  “Oh, by the robes of Saint Brigid, what happened, Miss Elsbeth?” Addy did a quick curtsy. “Your Grace.”

  “One of the statues fell,” Elsbeth said, hoping that the cook wouldn’t inquire any further.

  She stepped away, directing the footmen to remove the remnants of the statue.

  Gavin had been so careful in keeping everything that belonged to Bealadair and documenting every repair and replacement that there was one whole building dedicated to preserving historical remains. They would take the remnants of the statue there and it would be placed in a carefully labeled crate.

  Suddenly, there were more people, maids and footmen, stableboys, even Douglas and Mr. Barton, every single one of them offering his opinion on how such a near tragedy could have happened.

  “It’s the snow, of course. And the cold. Perhaps it’s cracked the stone.”

  “We should inspect all the statues,” someone offered, not knowing that Elsbeth had done that exact thing herself.

  “Perhaps they should be removed completely.” This comment was from Addy, who kept looking at the shattered statue and then the two of them.

  She really should move away, but she had a feeling of safety around Connor.

  Yet what if he was right? What if, instead of him being the target, she was? No, she couldn’t accept that, especially since he’d already been warned.

  “You saw the White Lady,” she said, looking up at him.

  Within seconds, she heard the buzz of conversation around her and realized that someone had overheard.

  “His Grace saw the White Lady.”

  “White Lady. The duke saw the White Lady.”

  “It’s a warning, Your Grace,” Addy said. “She always appears to warn one of the McCraights,” Addy continued. “It’s been that way ever since the house was first built.”

  Connor surprised Elsbeth by nodding, smiling faintly at Addy, and grabbing Elsbeth’s valise with one hand and her elbow with the other.

  “Let’s not dawdle,” he said, guiding her through the throng of people to the back door of the house, making his way through the corridors with her at his side.

  He didn’t say another word, and from his fixed look and thinned lips, Elsbeth decided it would be wiser if she didn’t speak, either.

  Chapter 31

  Soon enough they were at the library’s double doors. He opened one and stepped aside. She went through, and then watched him close the door and lock both of them.

  He held out his hands and she removed her cloak, watching as he placed it on one of the low bookcases. He did the same with his coat and hat, smoothing his hair with one palm.

  She removed her hat, taking some time with one of the pins before placing it atop her cloak.

  He still hadn’t said anything. Nor did she break the silence.

  He strode across the room to sit at Gavin’s desk. He motioned her to the chair next to him, a place she’d often sat, especially when she was young and being quizzed on her governess’s lessons.

  The duke had not, strangely enough, ever questioned his own daughters. She had often thought that the reason he did so with her was because of the responsibility he felt he owed her father.

  Even so, those times alone with Gavin had made his daughters resent her. Perhaps, if he had treated her the same as Lara, Anise, and Muira, they would have been closer growing up. Or maybe not. It was difficult to know something like that because she couldn’t rewrite history.

  She sat, folding her hands in her lap, just now realizing she was trembling.

  “What are you doing?” she asked as he pulled out a piece of paper and began writing.

  “Giving instructions to Mr. Barton to hire more footmen. I want at least two of them to accompany you during the day.” He glanced over at her. “Or do you do all the hiring here, Elsbeth?”

  She looked away. “I do most of it,” she admitted. “However, we really don’t need any extra footmen, Connor. Nor do I need an escort everywhere I go.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stop shivering.

  “Hell, Elsbeth, you’re freezing.”

  She wanted to tell him that she really wasn’t cold as much as frightened, but she couldn’t say the words. She’d just realized that the would-be killer had to be someone she knew, either a member of the staff or one of the family. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t push away that knowledge.

  Connor stood, came around the desk, and scooped her up from the chair, returning to the large leather chair with her in his arms. She’d never sat on anyone’s lap. Perhaps she had as a baby, but those memories were gone. She most certainly had never sat on Connor’s lap.

  She really should stand and go back to her chair, but the effort was simply beyond her. Just for a moment, she would lay her head down on his shoulder, her forehead against his neck. Just for a moment, she’d allow him to put his arm around her. Having Connor hold her close felt so warm and comforting that she truly didn’t want to move.

  The fireplace was a dozen feet away to her right. The maid had lit it in anticipation of Connor using the room. She felt a spurt of pride for the staff’s industriousness.

  She closed her eyes, wishing she could warm up. Wishing, too, that Connor hadn’t seen the White Lady.

  It was Gavin who’d told her the story about the girl who’d been abandoned by her lover. He had gone off to war or battle or some dispute with neighbors, leaving her to pine for him. When he’d never returned, she’d cried every night, her grief and anguish audible to everyone at Bealadair. Then one day she simply didn’t wake up. The story went that she’d died of a broken heart.

  “I think, perhaps,” Gavin had said, “that she had ‘willed herself no more to live.’” He’d smiled at her. “It’s part of a poem I learned as a boy about the White Lady. Unfortunately, that’s all I can remember of it now.”

  Throughout the ages, as the tale went, the White Lady visited the McCraights to warn the laird of some catastrophe, to share her anguish with them, and to prepare the family for a crisis.

  Connor moved slightly, and she placed her right hand against his chest, the thudding percussion of his heart reassuring. He wasn’t going to be here for the rest of her life. He wasn’t going to remain at Bealadair. Neither was she. Right now she simply wanted to stop time, encase it in stone, tie down the hands of the clock so it couldn’t march relentlessly onward.

  Her hand reached up, her fingers brushing against his throat. He bent his head a little, his cheek against the top of her head.

  She was not going to weep. Not now. But he had become, in such a short time, so dear to her. She loved the smell of his skin, the feel of his almost beard against her fingertips. His hair was thick and silky. There was not one thing about him that she would change. Not his boots or his way of walking as if he commanded the earth. Or his occasional arrogant look as he watched other people. You could not help but think that everyone failed his appraisal. He had a way of studying you with his deep brown eyes that saw through every prevarication, every shield you might erect.

  He cupped his hand around her jaw and lifted her head.

  Time felt as if it did stand still as they looked at each other.

  Could he read what she felt for him in her eyes? Was it there for anyone to see? She should have been wise enough to hide it. Then, again, it felt too strong an emotion to be easily hidden.

  Her heart felt full with either tears or longing, neither of which she should reveal.

  She should leave the room, race up the stairs to her suite where she’d close and barricade the door, send word that she was recuperating from a sudden illness and would not see anyone. Only the two of them would know that he was the reason for her hermit-like state and the illness was a fever whenever she was near him.

  He lo
wered his head slowly, giving her time to move away. She placed her fingertips against his cheek, wishing, paradoxically, that she had the strength to deny him and that she could go on kissing him for the rest of her life.

  Kissing him was like coming home, being welcomed in such a way that your heart settled and your soul expanded. She wanted to weep at the sweetness of it, the tenderness of his care for her.

  She sighed against his lips, and he tightened his arms around her as if she were a sylph and he was afraid that she would escape him. What woman would ever wish herself away from Connor? Who, granted they had any sense at all, wouldn’t rush into his embrace?

  If she couldn’t have him forever, then let her have him now. Here, on a leather chair in the middle of a winter day with the sunlight pouring in through the windows. The room was warm but not as heated as her thoughts.

  He stood, lowering her to her feet. He grabbed her hand and pulled her with him to the fire.

  She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t as cold as she had been before, or as frightened, but words didn’t seem right for this time or place.

  He released her hand, pushed the two wing chairs out of the way along with the table sitting between them. The oil lamp sitting there rocked a little and she was afraid it was going to fall and shatter. He grabbed it before it fell, then grinned at her, obviously proud of himself.

  He held out his hand to her and, bemused, she followed him down to the richly patterned carpet.

  The door was locked. They were alone. When he reached over and began to slowly unbutton the bodice of her dress, she didn’t stop him. All she did was watch his smile, captivated by the determined look in his eyes.

  She wanted to explain to him that the traveling outfit was more complicated than her normal housekeeping dress, but instead of saying anything, she merely added her hands to his, the object to divest her of all her clothes, to render her naked in the bright sun of day.

  She should have been embarrassed. At the very least she should have been modest. She should have blushed or even winced inwardly at the thought of being so exposed. She did none of those things. Instead, her nature—restrained and proper until this moment—laughed aloud, gave her wordless encouragement for this shocking behavior.