A Scandalous Scot Page 25

  “Do you have anyone in mind?” he asked, not liking the feeling he was getting.

  Andrew merely shrugged. “It was someone,” he said.

  “I hope you realize this is no game, Andrew. Nor is it a way to convince a maid to come to your bed. She’ll be fired.”

  Andrew only nodded, turned and entered his room, closing the door behind him.

  Morgan stared at the closed door for a moment. Should he challenge Andrew? Or call off the search? No, it was too late for that.

  Andrew had been his friend for years. But he’d seen him less in the last two weeks than he’d seen Mrs. MacDonald, and he avoided her when he could.

  When they did meet, their conversation was stilted. Andrew wasn’t interested in anything regarding Ballindair, Morgan’s heritage, or Scotland.

  Instead, he seemed determined to bring up the past on every occasion. Morgan didn’t care to occupy his time with reminiscences of Lillian or London.

  The past was the past, his mistakes glaring and immutable. Focusing on those, however, would draw his eyes away from the promise of the future, and the enjoyment of the present.

  The boy he’d been was fading like a specter. He was no longer that child. His life had been marked by both successes—such as his work at the distilleries—and failures, such as his marriage.

  He could do nothing about disappointing his father. Nor could he re-create those days of innocent joy when the world was at his feet and he believed he could effortlessly achieve his father’s greatness.

  The challenge was to make something of his life as it was now, neither based on his father’s expectations nor his own childish ones.

  He had the sudden, uncomfortable thought that Andrew belonged in the past, and wouldn’t be a friend to the man he now truly wished to be.

  “I didn’t do it, Mrs. MacDonald. I swear. I’d never take anything belonging to someone else. I swear.”

  Donalda’s voice kept rising in tone and strength, accompanied by tears. Not only was she weeping, but so was every other maid at Ballindair. They knew Donalda’s circumstances only too well. Banishment from Ballindair meant certain starvation for her family.

  Mary MacDonald nodded, sadness filling her heart. Of all the girls on staff, Donalda was the easiest to manage. She’d always taken direction well, had endeavored to please, and was a hard worker.

  Mary hated this part of her position.

  She looked down at Mr. Prender’s watch in her hand. They’d found it below Donalda’s pillow, as if the girl had kept it close to marvel at the intricacy of the gold case and the diamonds sprinkled over the face.

  If the girl had truly stolen the watch, she’d have hidden it in a better place, planned to take it to Inverness to sell. The proceeds would’ve kept her family in food for a year. Instead, the watch had been too easily found and now she must be dismissed from Ballindair.

  There was no other choice.

  Mary looked up to find her niece standing at the end of the hall. Catriona smiled, nodded at her, then disappeared down the main staircase, giving Mary the impression she was utterly pleased with what had just transpired.

  The housekeeper wanted to cry.

  “I didn’t do it, Mrs. MacDonald,”

  Mary had her doubts as well, but the rules were there for a reason. If she kept Donalda on, her own credibility would be weakened. Nor did she think it would do any good to appeal to the earl for clemency, not when the theft involved his friend.

  She was, however, going to remember Catriona’s pleased and self-satisfied expression.

  How foolish did Catriona think everyone was? Did she think brownies washed the linens in Mr. Prender’s room? All of them, with the exception of Jean, and perhaps the earl, knew she was spending all her free time with Andrew Prender. They were not discussing literature or the goings-on in London in his room.

  Regrettably, she’d have to dismiss Donalda. But there must be something she could do for the family. Because of Mr. Seath’s worsening condition, she didn’t feel right going to him for assistance.

  There was only one person who could help: the new Countess of Denbleigh.

  When she was a maid, Jean had been given a task and expected to perform it to the best of her ability. Her work, as she’d been lectured, was a demonstration of both her diligence and her attitude.

  Every morning, she’d begun her day with a challenge to herself. How could she be better at her tasks than the day before? How could she learn more, do more, and be more valuable in her position? Even the laundry had been a learning experience.

  The life of a maid was less complex and, strangely, more rewarding than the life of a countess. The seamstress was in the process of making more clothes for her than she’d ever owned. She had jewelry—Morgan had insisted she keep the MacCraig clan brooch, and several pairs of earrings belonging to his mother. To her great dismay, he had settled an amount of money on her, money that was even now sitting in the drawer of the bureau. What did she need to buy? All she had to do was look around her and her every wish was fulfilled.

  Yet the art and the treasures of Ballindair meant nothing to her. Perhaps she would have felt more of an acquisitive glee if she hadn’t cleaned those statues, dusted those gilt frames, and polished that silver.

  The only thing she prized about being a countess was sharing Morgan’s bed. But for the ability to touch him, love him, and share her thoughts with him, she would happily go back to being a maid.

  The man she was on her way to see would have been pleased if she did. Or if she’d never married Morgan.

  Andrew had set up his chair and easel on the west lawn, having evidently tired of Catriona as a subject. Perhaps the mountains in the distance lured him more than her sister, or, like the rest of them, he was simply tired of Catriona’s machinations.

  The day was bright and sunny with not a cloud in sight, which might explain why he was taking advantage of the respite from rain and painting here.

  She studied him for a few moments, then resolutely made her way in his direction. She didn’t like Andrew Prender, a confession she’d not made to another soul. There was something grating about the man. Every time he addressed her, she had the impression he was laughing at the fact Morgan had married a maid.

  Or perhaps he simply thought her beneath him.

  Jean wished the seamstress had finished with another one of her new dresses. As it was, she was wearing the same thing she’d worn the day before. Soon, it would become like a uniform. If not similar in style to her maid’s attire, then worn as often.

  At least the dress wasn’t a solid color, but an emerald stripe with a small contrasting ribbon of brown. The bodice buttoned up the front, and the buttons were rosettes carved from bone.

  Andrew looked up as she approached, put his brush down in the tray of the easel and smiled a welcoming smile.

  She wished she could accept the sincerity of it, but she didn’t trust the man.

  “I am indeed gifted today,” he said. “A clear sky and the Countess of Denbleigh come to see me herself.”

  She didn’t bother smiling in return. She wasn’t that much of a hypocrite.

  Evidently neither was Mr. Prender, because he didn’t stand as she neared him.

  “Why did you single out Donalda for punishment?” she asked.

  Polite conversation was all well and good, but she had no desire to discuss the weather with him. All she wanted to do was find out if Aunt Mary’s suspicions were correct.

  His eyes widened at her attack. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Countess.”

  “You needn’t continue addressing me in that fashion, Mr. Prender,” she said. “I’m only too aware of your opinion of me. You can either call me Jean or simply nothing at all.”

  He remained silent.

  Had she angered him? Good. She’d been angry ever since learning of Donalda’s dismissal.

  “Is it your aim to punish Donalda?” At his look, she added, “The girl who’s been dismissed for the
theft of your watch.”

  “I don’t know the girl,” he said, his attention focused on the squiggly lines on the canvas in front of him. “Are you thinking I should excuse her for the theft?”

  “I’m thinking you orchestrated the theft,” she said. “But I don’t know why. I doubt Donalda’s the type to interest you, Mr. Prender. Did she spurn your advances in some way? Are you still angry that she didn’t wish to be painted?”

  He turned his head and smiled at her. A perfectly agreeable smile if you didn’t notice the sharp and avaricious gleam in his eyes.

  “I much prefer your sister, Jean,” he said.

  She took a step back, his words washing over her. What had she expected? For him to act the part of gentlemen?

  “You don’t like me, do you, Countess?”

  “Am I expected to, Mr. Prender, after that remark?”

  He stood, then came closer. She didn’t retreat, but remained where she was, fisting her hands in her skirt. They were similar in height, so she looked him straight in the eye when he was close.

  “Are you like your sister, Countess? If so, I can understand why Morgan might be captivated.”

  She could feel the warmth in her cheeks. She might not be versed in the ways of the peerage, but she knew that kind of comment was frowned upon in polite conversation.

  She took a step back, ceding the ground. “And you, Mr. Prender, are you so captivated by my sister you would harm another?”

  He smiled at her. “How very virtuous you sound, Countess. Perhaps Morgan isn’t that fortunate after all.”

  She didn’t want to be here, and she didn’t want to converse with Mr. Prender any further. Besides, she already had her answer.

  Turning, she left him, all the while feeling his gaze on her back. Could she ask Morgan to hint that Andrew’s stay as a guest had come to an end?

  She couldn’t very well send Catriona away. What was she going to do about her? Her sister didn’t care whom she hurt, including Donalda.

  Donalda. That situation must be rectified. She wished Aunt Mary had talked to her before banishing the girl. But she’d been with Mr. Seath, and Aunt Mary hadn’t wanted to disturb her reading to the ill man.

  Instead of returning to the castle, she walked through the south courtyard to the stables. When she requested a carriage, the stable master didn’t hesitate, and when she told him her destination, he nodded, giving her an approving grin.

  “A poor thing’s been done today, I’m thinking,” he said. “A poor, poor thing. I sent a wagon to take her home.”

  Had he done so on her aunt’s orders, or had he simply made the decision himself? She smiled at him, grateful.

  “Do you care to inform me about your charming conversation with Andrew?”

  She turned to find Morgan leaning against the stable door, his arms folded in front of him in a nonchalant position. But she was coming to know him. He was feeling anything but calm at the moment.

  His eyes flashed fire.

  “I’ll just ready the carriage,” the stable master said, wisely removing himself from the scene.

  “Your hair is tumbling down,” he said, his voice tight.

  She felt for her bun, only to realize it had, indeed, come loose.

  “No doubt Lillian was groomed to perfection,” she said.

  “Why are you mentioning Lillian?”

  “Because whenever I’ve done anything to annoy you, you think about her. Such as right now. You’re wondering if you can trust me.”

  He unfolded his arms and strode across the floor, halting directly in front of her.

  “Was I doing that?” he asked.

  “You were.”

  He neither refuted her comment or agreed with it.

  “Are you accusing me of lusting after your friend?” she asked. Disbelief held her in place, staring at him. “I haven’t the slightest interest in Andrew. He’s obnoxious and a boor.”

  “What did he do to you?”

  The question was asked quietly, but his voice held a world of menace.

  “He did nothing.”

  “He didn’t proposition you?”

  She laughed. “Of course he didn’t.”

  “Andrew’s been known to be direct to beautiful women. He didn’t insult you?”

  For a moment she thought it was a jest. But after searching his face, she realized he was serious.

  “I’m not beautiful, Morgan.”

  “Of course you are,” he said. “You’re too pale, normally, but the moment your face gets a little color, you’re remarkably attractive.”

  She was blushing even now.

  “You can’t think to be jealous,” she said.

  He waved his hand in the air.

  “I’m not jealous. Call me protective, if you must. I won’t have you insulted.”

  She blinked at him, uncertain what to say. His irritation felt, strangely, like a warm blanket he’d wrapped around her.

  “What did he do? Why were you meeting with him, and where are you going?”

  “Come with me,” she urged. “Come with me and I’ll answer all your questions.”

  To her surprise, he didn’t hesitate, except to tell the stable master to inform Mrs. MacDonald they were going to be away for a time.

  “Where are we going?” he said after they’d settled into the carriage.

  “A girl was dismissed from Ballindair.”

  “For theft,” he said, nodding.

  “What do you know about her?”

  He frowned. “Nothing. Should I?”

  She nodded. “You should, I think. Don’t you see the people who serve you?”

  “I try not to,” he said, to her surprise. “Sometimes, all those people, set to obey your slightest whim, are oppressive. Sometimes, all you want is a little privacy, so you pretend someone isn’t standing there, waiting for you to ask for something or send them on an errand.”

  She’d never considered that.

  “Nor did I particularly like being dressed by someone else. Or having my buttocks grabbed to ensure the fit of my trousers wasn’t too tight.”

  Startled laughter escaped her.

  He smiled. “My valet even tried to adjust my inseam, but only once.”

  “Perhaps he was only impressed by your manly dimensions,” she said with a smile.

  No doubt his look was meant to be quelling, but she couldn’t help but laugh again.

  “Why are you going to see her?” he asked a few moments later.

  “I’m going to bring her back to Ballindair. A wrong has been committed.”

  “And you’re going to make it right?”

  She nodded.

  “Tell me about her,” he said, settling back against the seat.

  “She’s been in service at Ballindair the last two years and is the sole support of her family, which numbers three,” she said, reciting the information Mr. Seath had provided her. “A younger brother, her mother, and her father who was injured a few years ago and can barely walk.”

  To his credit, Morgan asked, “What will happen to her family if she’s not employed?”

  Before she could answer that the situation would be dire, indeed, for the entire family, Morgan tapped on the driver’s window and gave him the signal to stop.

  At her look, he said, “A bit of my past. Do we have time?”

  She nodded.

  “Then come and see,” he said, and leaving the carriage, held out his hand for her.

  She dismounted, taking care as she descended the steps. Following Morgan, she wondered what had put that smile on his face.

  Chapter 30

  RULES FOR STAFF: You are allowed one tallow candle per week, a ration of soap per month, and a towel.

  She’d never walked this far on her half day off, but now Jean wished she had. From here she could see the shadowed mountains in the distance and the wider body of water. She’d have to ask Morgan what it was called.

  Heather perfumed the humid air, and a line of dark clouds marc
hed toward them, threatening another afternoon of rain.

  Below, on the slope of the glen, nearly at the edge of the water, she saw a whitewashed long house, obviously deserted. The thatch roof was in pieces and the door stood ajar.

  This was the desolation Mr. Seath had talked about; this was what the 8th Earl of Denbleigh had wanted and designed. There, on the heather covered hills, were the undulating flocks of sheep, black-faced and sturdy, eating their way across the earth.

  Morgan was walking toward a sycamore tree that sat by itself in the middle of the glen. She followed, taking care to avoid the worst of the brambles and nettles, and an occasional hole in the ground leading to some animal’s burrow.

  “What is it?” she asked, reaching him.

  His palm pressed against the bark of the tree. Above his fingers something glittered in the bright sunlight. Several coins had been hammered into the bark.

  “It’s a wishing tree,” she said, amazed.

  He nodded, his fingers trailing over the coins.

  “My father and I did this first one,” he said, pointing to the lowest coin. “When I was a boy.”

  She kept silent, hoping he would tell her more.

  “Every year on my birthday,” he said.

  She counted them. “There are only ten.”

  He nodded again. “That’s when I went away to school.” He pointed to another coin all by itself, high above the others. This coin hadn’t been hammered as deep into the bark.

  “On the day I was leaving Ballindair, I asked the coachman to stop,” he said. “I hammered it in myself with the heel of my boot.”

  He grinned at her, the expression transforming his face. In that instant she could almost see him as he’d been on that long ago day.

  “You didn’t want to go?”‘

  He shook his head. “I didn’t want to leave Ballindair or my father.”

  “You loved him very much,” she said.

  “He was the most honorable man I’ve ever known.”

  Knowing what she did about his father, she kept silent.

  A few moments later they returned to the carriage.

  Once inside, she faced the window, marking the location of the tree in her mind. Perhaps they would come back here again one day, and she’d have the opportunity to hammer in her own coin.