Beguiled (4 page)

The earl moved aside his plate and reached for her. Then he thought better of it. Glancing yet again at the door, he said, “Later, I'll need more substantial proof of your recovery.”

His movement and something in his tone put her on alert. Or was it simply the sound of his voice? According to Papa, Lord Edward was chancellor of Glasgow University. Scholars flocked to his lectures about the coming age of machines. He certainly exuded authority.

She balked at the possibility that he might treat her as an inferior. She must stand on even ground with him; only then would he trust her completely. “Granted, I cannot arm wrestle or ride a horse.”

He stared pointedly at her coiffure and the army of buttons that marched up her dress front.

“I have a companion to help me, Lord Edward. Surely you recall meeting Auntie Loo. She sees to my personal needs, and I assume responsibility for her.” Agnes's companion possessed the wealth of a princess, but he needn't know that.

“My compliments. She is obviously skilled and certainly patient.” He gave her a silent nod of approval, then spoiled it by saying, “Perhaps after the children have retired, you will speak of the few activities you can perform. That shouldn't take long.”

A slight exaggeration didn't truly count as a lie. Misrepresentation better suited her intentions. No matter her methods, ending the subject of her health and gaining a commitment as to their departure for Glasgow was foremost on her mind. The man himself, although roguishly attractive, held no place in her rush to leave Edinburgh.

Yielding a bit seemed prudent. “ 'Tis for certain I cannot carry my luggage, but I expect you have a porter for that.”

Engrossed in her neckcloth, Hannah murmured, “He's bossy, our porter is.”

Christopher rolled his eyes. “Mr. Boswell's his name. Everybody calls him Bossy, but he doesn't order us around.”

Agnes didn't doubt that. “Then I shall pack only one valise and have everything else sent to Glasgow later.”

Hannah discovered the game of blow the cravat. “When are we going home?”

“Tomorrow, Button.”

Tomorrow? They couldn't. Not without her. Swallowing apprehension, Agnes put on a smile. “How lovely. We can stop in Murcat's Field and see the heather. Perhaps your father will allow us to take lunch there.”

“I know how to build a fire,” piped Christopher.

Hannah screwed up her face. “Fire will bum me.”

“Ah, here's dessert,” said Lord Edward. “We'll discuss our plans privately, Lady Agnes.”

“With pleasure, Lord Edward.”

The children sat as straight as soldiers as the serving girl placed plates of cake smothered with clotted cream before them. The lure of conversation proved a poor second to dessert, and the children ate in silence. Enlisting their support to gain the father's approval did not trouble Agnes; this family needed her.

She said, “Tell me what you like best about your home, Christopher.”

“We have a new foal in the stable—a filly. Hannah has books with drawings.”

The girl was busy raking her spoon over her plate to scoop up a last bit of cream. “You took the letters,” she murmured.

She'd made the puzzling statement earlier, but before Agnes could inquire about it, Christopher said, “Our cook will serve you pease porridge whether you have a taste for it or not.”

“Blah!” Hannah scowled.

“Excuse me a moment, my lady.” Lord Edward rose, extended his arm toward the stairs, and stared at his children. To Agnes's surprise, they said their goodbyes without protest. Watching them walk away, Hannah's small hand tucked into Christopher's, Agnes remembered holding her sister Virginia's hand just so. A pity she'd let it go.

The earl handed his children into the care of a nursemaid, conversed with her briefly, then stood at the base of the stairs and watched them ascend. Preoccupied, his brow creased in concern, he strolled toward Agnes. The need to ease his troubled mind rose inside her. As he moved closer, other women in the room paused to stare at him. Whispers of feminine approval drifted on the close air, but he didn't notice.

By the time he resumed his seat, Agnes felt a sense of pride at being in his company.

“Now,” he began in his no-nonsense physician's voice. “Take your arm out of the sling and let me see how strong you are.” He held up an index finger. “I want you to squeeze it as hard as you can.”

Her shoulder was sore, but not enough to prevent movement, certainly not the don't-lift-a-finger kind of movement he suggested. As she slipped her arm free, she felt his gaze. Curling her fingers around his, she gave a gentle squeeze.

“You're weak.”

Her special prowess lay in her agility. Cunning did the rest. “Strength is a relative term, my lord. Are you making a reference to my gender or a professional opinion on the state of my health?”

With his other hand, he felt her pulse. “Both I suppose.”

Chang Ling, the master who'd taught her the fighting ways of the ancient ones, had also schooled her to control her emotions. Calling up his teachings, she tightened her grip.

Lord Edward's hands were large, but not square or overly callused, and his fingers were long, graceful, and vaguely reminiscent of those of a violinist she'd met in Paris. It was odd that she should think of that engaging Frenchman now. Her sister Lottie was quick to say that she'd love her own husband, David, even if he had warts on his nose and crippled limbs.

“Surely you can do better than that—unless the pain distracts you.”

She was distracted—by him. The realization gave her pause. Lord Edward Napier was attractive enough with his cool gray eyes and his noble bearing. But it was more than that. Good looks aside, something intangible drew her to the troubled earl of Cathcart.

“Are you sleeping well?”

Banishing unnecessary thought, she concentrated on the task at hand. She squeezed harder. An instant later, the tip of Lord Edward's finger turned deep red, but he gave no sign that he was in distress.

“One thing is certain.” His voice dropped. “You have either an affection for a gentleman in this room or your injury causes your heart to race.” He touched her forehead while his eyes searched the room. “Do you perspire from heat or from a personal discomfiture?”

She'd sooner walk to Glasgow than answer him. Putting on a false smile, she withdrew her hand. “I fail to see why it matters. I'm on the mend.”

“Based on what Lord Lachlan told me, I choose the ambient temperature rather than a romantic entanglement.”

Did she appear incapable of romance to others? Is that what father had meant? Her success or lack of it was her own concern, and neither the Highland rogue nor this Glaswegian nobleman would make her lament her life's choice.

She returned her arm to the sling, and the ache in her shoulder eased. “I'm curious. Tell me exactly what my father said.”

Absently, he touched the iron trivet. When it rocked in place, he picked it up and examined its wooden legs. “His Grace was quite forthcoming.” From his waistcoat pocket he produced a metal object no bigger than her little finger. Releasing a hinge, he unfolded a tiny knife and began shaving away at one of the trivet legs.

“That's an ingenious tool.”

He shrugged. “You spent over a year in China, engaging in all sorts of unfeminine pursuits. His grace swears that your hands are deadly weapons, with or without a pistol or a blade.”

“What else did he say?”

He put down the trivet and tested it. When it didn't sit evenly, he again went to work on the legs. “He grieves because you harbor too much blame for events beyond your control. He says you will not let go of the past.”

A stillness came over her. “Did he tell you why?”

“Nay.” Again, he tested the trivet; it no longer rocked. He folded the knife and returned it to his waistcoat.

The simple answer, combined with the subtle finality of finishing his repair on the serving piece, told Agnes that he preferred to leave the subject alone.

That suited her perfectly. “Are you satisfied that I'm strong enough to travel?”

He laughed ruefully. “I'm satisfied that you are
stubborn
enough to travel.”

“I'll be fine, you'll see.”

His level stare pierced her. “You'll be jostled for two days in the carriage.”

Praise the saints; he had relented and was giving her fair warning of how difficult the journey would be. “I'll bring along a blanket and a pillow to use as cushions.”

“Then you do admit that you have pain?”

Placating him should put the matter to rest. “I have more respect for you than to lie. Yes, there is pain and soreness, but 'tis not unmanageable. Only the itching.”

“A good sign. The wound is healing. I'll remove the stitches in a day or two. 'Twill hurt.”

“When do we leave for Glasgow?”

He was sorting it out; she could read his indecision. To give him time, she sought to placate him further. “I've been stitched up before.”

“Where?”

“At home in Tain.”

Thinning patience tightened his smile. “Where on your person were you stitched up? A hand, a finger?”

“A lady wouldn't mention where—not in mixed company.”

“A lady should speak freely to her physician. How did the injury occur?”

“My sister Mary pushed me down. I fell onto a broken butter crock, bottom first. I took supper standing.”

“How old were you?”

“Eight as I recall, and an excellent retaliator.”

“What did you do to her?”

“While she slept, I trimmed the hair on the right side of her head.”

“Were you punished?”

“In a way. Sarah and Lottie cut their hair to match Mary's.”

“So you were odd lass out.”

“For that occasion. When do we leave for Glasgow?”

“Christopher and Hannah are curious children. I have encouraged them to be that way. They have not traveled often, and this journey did not turn out as I planned. The carriage will be confining, and if you grow annoyed with them—”

“Rest assured, my lord, my tolerance is infinite where children are concerned. At what time shall I be ready?”

“At daybreak, and I'll not wait for you.”

“I always rise before dawn. 'Tis done then.”

Now that she had the commitment, she broached the subject that had troubled her since that fateful moment in the chapel. “Who is trying to kill you and why?”

Weariness settled over him; he looked around the room as if the answer lay there. “I haven't the slightest notion, and believe me, I've pondered it long and hard.”

Not from an objective perspective. “Did you recognize the bowman?”

“Nay.”

“Have you insulted a powerful peer of the realm?”

A wry smile lightened his expression. “Only your father.”

So, she thought, this troubled earl possessed a true sense of humor. Another point in his favor. “Someone in your family wishes you ill.”

“Impossible. I have only one immediate relative, a first cousin who lives in the Canadian Territory. He prospers in the fur trade and wishes me well of the title.”

“A dismissed student or a sultry one, wanting revenge over failing marks?”

“I have not taught a class proper in years. I only lecture on two or three subjects.”

“Have you dishonored—albeit unknowingly—a woman?”

“I believe I would know if I had behaved improperly with a woman. I have not.”

A touchy subject for him, considering his umbrage. “An investment gone sour?”

Proudly he said, “With Michael Elliot as a partner? Nay, none of our investments has gone badly. He has an excellent mind for business.”

“Are there other ventures?”

“My only constant participation in commerce is a textile mill in Glasgow. My family has operated the business for centuries.”

“Does it prosper?”

“For the most part.”

The vague answer pricked her curiosity, but she'd delve into his commercial dealings later. “Any unexplained accidents?”

“There was a fire, but such misfortunes are expected in mills. Cotton is highly flammable, and while there are as many windows as I can provide without cooling the air overmuch, we must use open flames.”

“How did the blaze start?”

“ 'Twas a commonality, a lantern left unattended in the night.”

“Any other
misfortunes?”

He shook his head, but his attention was suddenly drawn to the entrance. Agnes turned, and the door swung open. Arm in arm and grinning like newlyweds, the duke and duchess of Ross entered the room. Juliet gave Agnes a discreet wave of acknowledgment but moved toward the stairs, preventing Lachlan from noticing that Agnes and Lottie were in the common room.

Lottie noticed, too, and for a moment Agnes thought her sister might foil their parents' plans; but good behavior held sway, and Lottie gave no indication that she saw the duke and duchess of Ross.

“Your parents have taken rooms here?” Edward asked.

For an afternoon lovers' tryst, Agnes decided. With so many children in their household, the duke and duchess had always snatched moments of privacy where they could.

Straining to hide a blush, she said, “He's probably going to scold her.”

“Scold her? He looks smitten.”

They disappeared up the stairs and Agnes relaxed. “Pardon me, but it's a private jest.”

“You have an odd way of scolding in Clan MacKenzie.”

“Aye, we do.”

“Tell me more about Lord Lachlan's scolding.”

Before Agnes could speak, Lottie approached their table. Tall and regal, the countess of Tain commanded the attention of every occupant in the room, even the clergymen. She wore a stunningly creative day gown of yellow silk. The color complemented her auburn hair, and the sapphires at her throat and earlobes enhanced the deep blue of her eyes.