A Scandalous Scot (2 page)

Catriona had smiled. “You have the world as it is. And you must make do with it.”

At that moment her younger sister seemed so old and worn that she had been silenced.

At least they had a roof over their heads and food to eat. During that last month in Inverness, she’d doubted they would survive. Hunger had been one of those constants like sunrise and sunset. If she was awake, she was hungry.

Then the letter had come from their aunt, offering them both positions as maids at Ballindair. Catriona was sent to tend to the public rooms, while she had been designated a general maid. She’d had to learn a great deal about the workings of a large home when her only experience was a small house of seven rooms.

Circumstances change. You must adapt. You have to accept certain realities about life. On that she agreed with Catriona.

She hadn’t the education to be a governess. She lacked fluency in French and she was abysmal at watercolors. Her alternatives were few: become a bedewoman, a licensed beggar, or allow her sister to become a wealthy man’s mistress. More than one man had hinted at an arrangement with Catriona.

At least being a maid was a decent occupation.

When they came to Ballindair a year ago, she had a choice: bemoan what had happened to them or accept her new life. She’d grown tired of grief, of worry and despair, so she took up her aunt’s lessons in earnest, deciding to become the very best maid she could be. She’d taken pride in each task given her, learned as much as she could, and tried to become a valuable addition to the castle staff.

Along the way she found nuggets of joy in each day, like the sight of a flower in bloom, the breadth and depth of the night sky, or the flicker of a candle flame.

The book she’d borrowed from Ballindair’s library was one of those nuggets, leading to her interest in three of the castle ghosts: the Herald, the Green Lady, and the French Nun.

That interest was why she was here in the middle of the night, trying to find the ghost of a woman whose life had been, in contrast, so much worse than hers.

At least, so far.

“T
he thing is to decide what to do with the rest of your life,” Andrew Prender said. “Since you’ve surrendered your position at Parliament.”

“I didn’t surrender my position,” Morgan said. “I was asked to give it up for the good of Scotland.” The last part of that sentence was the hardest to say and tasted like bile on his tongue.

Andrew waved a gloved hand in the air as if to dismiss his banishment.

“They’ll come around.”

They wouldn’t come around. He was a scandal. He, Morgan MacCraig, 9th Earl of Denbleigh, was a detriment to his fellow Scottish peers. His father had been the Keeper of the Great Seal of Scotland, while his son was a disgrace.

He hadn’t been prepared for the reaction of his friends. People he’d thought would understand had turned their backs on him. More than once he’d greeted another man at an event, someone who suddenly found the floor, the ceiling, or the opposite wall of great interest. Even those whose opinions didn’t matter to him pretended he was invisible. No one curried his favor any longer. He’d become a social and political pariah.

Only Andrew had remained a friend, even going so far as attaching himself to him and expressing a sudden and fervent desire to accompany him home to the Highlands.

They’d traveled by train to Inverness, and from there in a carriage his steward had arranged. When he’d questioned the driver how he knew they were arriving on that particular train, the man just tipped his hat and grinned.

“I’ve instructions to wait for you, Your Lordship. However long that might be.”

Morgan’s eyebrows rose. “Even at dawn?”

“Whenever the train comes in, Your Lordship.”

“I’m not due for another ten days.”

That made the man grin even more. “Your father had a habit of always arriving early. Mr. Seath, sir, thought you might do the same. Besides, sir, you’re the MacCraig of Ballindair.”

He’d felt absurdly grateful for the man’s comment, the first sign of anything other than disgust he’d received in months. He nodded, entering the carriage and remaining silent for a while. Andrew was content enough to leave him to his thoughts until the last hour. As the sun rose, so did Andrew’s curiosity.

He’d known better than to try to change Andrew’s mind about coming with him to Scotland. Once Andrew was set on a course, nothing could alter it. Their friendship had begun as boys at school. Together, they had suffered privations and admitted their homesickness to each other.

Andrew’s father had been a wealthy merchant, Morgan’s father a hero of Scotland. Hell, he’d even died a hero, attempting to save a child after his ship sank off the Isle of Man. Andrew’s father had expired in his bed, but both men left their sons a well-funded legacy.

Sometimes, especially recently, Morgan thought he’d much rather have Andrew’s life. His friend dabbled at anything he wished—painting was his newest interest—and once bored, found something else to pursue.

A trait he carried over to women, his most important occupation.

The Duchess of Montrose had once told him that Andrew was the perfect companion, even married as he was. His wife kept to his country estate, leaving Andrew to the pleasures of London.

Andrew’s handsome face always bore a pleasant expression. He even smiled in his dreams, an observation Morgan had made when they shared a cold and comfortless room at school. Andrew listened intently, told a great jest, and made each woman believe she was the only object of his affection.

Rumors about his equipage, spoken in tittering whispers, were true.

“God gave me another few inches there,” Andrew once told him, “to make up for my lack of stature.”

“How are you going to deal at Ballindair?” Morgan asked him now. “Without one of your lovelies on your arm?”

“I’m not skirt chasing on this trip. I’m merely enjoying a little taste of Scotland with a friend,” Andrew replied. “I’ve brought along my paints, and I’ll capture your bucolic scenery on canvas.”

Morgan smiled. “It’s not exactly bucolic,” he said. “It will take your breath away. Nothing like your England with your hazy air and rolling hills. The Highlands demand your attention. Summon it. Pull your eyes to the mountain’s summit, make you gasp at the sight of the lochs.”

“Spoken like a true Scotsman, for all you’ve been an expatriate for the last five years.”

Andrew’s comment might have been correct, but he didn’t have to like it. Morgan turned away, his attention on the view.

His heartbeat quickened at the sight of the hills in front of him. An Englishman would call them mountains, but a Scot knew they were only nubs, nothing like Ben Nevis or Ben Macdui and the rest of the Grampians.

“You didn’t answer,” Andrew said. “What are you going to do with yourself now?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

For most of his adult life, he’d done his duty to the family at the distilleries bearing his name. He’d acted in every capacity, working his way up through the ranks until he understood everything about making whiskey. Not for him the indolent occupations of his friends.

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.

J
ean 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.