Smitten by the Spinster (2 page)

She knew deep down that it wasn’t the action movie audition that had changed him, it was the fact that she was no longer the starving artist she’d been when they first met. How he’d loved being her benefactor, almost like a knight in shining armor, offering her encouragement after a crappy day of failed auditions and teaching children tap dancing. He didn’t know how to deal with her now that she had a bit of hard earned success.

She remembered the good times they’d had together, blocking out the past month of his biting comments and hurtful jabs. It was a transition phase. As she made the decision to work harder at their relationship, the waiter hurried by at the top of the stairs. Wreathed in shadow, the tails of his coat billowing behind him, he was too much for her to pass up. And he’d know where the reception room was.

Finally having a practical reason to satisfy her curiosity, she clamored up the stairs as nimbly and quietly as she could on her spiky heels. A gas light flickered at one end of the hall and she made her way in that direction. The hallway was crowded with side tables and shelving units, every surface crammed with doodads and knick-knacks, each one probably oozing with historical value. She leaned over one side table to get a better look at some intriguing cut crystal pieces, and bumped her backside into the table on the opposite side of the narrow hall, causing several things to clatter to the floor.

Swearing quietly to herself, she whirled around to pick everything up, praying she hadn’t broken anything. She hastily replaced a vase and a picture frame, the hallway too dark and the picture itself too blurry to make out what it was, and stretched under the table to try and grab the last thing that fell, what looked like an old cracked marble on a long brass chain. As soon as her fingers curled around the marble, she heard an angry throat clearing behind her, causing her to crack the top of her head in her hurry to get up.

The waiter stood above her, looking profoundly disturbed at her presence, but reached out a hand to help her up. Trying to keep what was left of her dignity, she managed to stand without flashing him or falling off her heels.

“Miss, you mustn’t be up here,” the man said in a posh accent, taking her elbow and turning her back in the direction of the stairs.

Leaning closer to him in the poor light she saw his costume was really quite fantastic, much better than she would have thought they’d get for waitstaff. She rubbed the top of her head and winced, sure her sleek ponytail was a mess.

“Is there going to be a show?” she asked, thinking there might be a historical re-enactment after dinner.

He stared down at her with disconcerting directness, his silver gray eyes unblinking. He seemed more sure of himself than any actor or waiter and she found herself meekly turning in the direction he pointed her.

“You’ll find what you’re looking for downstairs,” he said, giving her a little shove.

Before she could ask him anything else, he glanced down at a pocket watch he took from his waistcoat, scowled some more and then left, disappearing into a room at the opposite end of the hall.

Bizarre, she thought. And rude. She made her way back to the stairway and realized she still had the brass necklace clutched in her hand. Bugger, how important could it be that it got put back on the same shelf? She decided to ditch it on the closest table and go find the shrimp cocktail when she heard a definite crash come from the room the man had entered.

As strange as he’d been, he had helped her up from her foray under the table. As crowded with junk as the hallway was, she imagined the rooms were equally full of dangers. She really ought to just peek and make sure something hadn’t fallen on him. She wound her way past the piles toward the darkened end of the hall and knocked lightly on the door.

“Sir?” she called softly.

Knocking again, she nudged open the door and peered around it. The room was empty save for a dresser. Not even a rug covered the wood floor. She stepped all the way in and turned in a circle. An open wardrobe leaned against the opposite wall, also completely empty. She noticed in the corner near the dresser lay a large brass vase, probably the source of the noise she’d heard. So, he’d knocked it off the dresser, now where was he? She strode to the dresser, gasping at the drop in temperature as she knelt by the vase. The window in the room was covered with thick velvet drapes, and no draft came from that direction, but she felt a chill crawl up her arms as she eyed the wall for a hidden doorway.

“Bloody old houses,” she murmured, feeling a bit spooked and wanting the comfort of her voice.

She laughed at herself for being silly, realizing she must have just gone into the wrong room. She reached out to pick up the vase with the old necklace still wound around her hand and rolled her eyes at herself. It seemed she was determined to steal the ugly old thing. Picking up the vase, she was about to drop it in and leave them both on the dresser when the air grew even colder all at once, raising goosebumps on her skin. She tried to drop the vase and get out of there, back down to people and safety, but was rooted to the spot. The air shimmered before her eyes, a jolt of pain hit her in the temple and everything disappeared.

The cold receded from her skin, replaced by a sickly sheen of sweat. She gagged and leaned over, clutching her knees and nearly falling off her high heels. Wow, she had never come so close to passing out before, and wondered what might have caused her to feel so ill all of a sudden. She blinked a few times and looked around. And almost fainted again.

The previously nearly empty room was now completely and lushly furnished. Her heels sank into a thick Persian rug, her hand rested on a shiny walnut dresser, not the dresser that had been there before. A dim lamp burned on a spindly side table near an elaborate mirror that hung over a washstand. A four poster bed with green curtains was about two feet away from where she was about to fall over.

She looked down at her hand that still clutched the glass marble pendant. The vase she’d been holding was gone. Not on the floor, not anywhere.

“What in the hell?” she asked out loud in growing terror.

Spots winked in her vision and she staggered to the bed, knocking a heavy silver candle holder to the ground on her way. The door slid open and a stately older man poked his head around it. She stood there gaping at him as he took her in from top to toe. Groaning, he quickly came into the room and shut the door behind him.

“Dear me,” he said with a shake of his head. “Not again.”

On the final day of their arduous journey, Quinn Ferguson decided it was time to hire a post chaise. He didn’t want his sister riding into her mother’s home town and meeting that side of her family for the first time bedraggled and smelling of horse. She was going to pitch the worst fit imaginable, and the wicked child could throw one hell of a fit, but he would stay the course and toss a sack over her head and stuff her in with the luggage if he had to.

Sure enough, when she came down from her room at the dusty, unfriendly inn— God, he was already sick of the English— she saw the bags being loaded into the coach and dug in her heels. He glanced around quickly to make sure there weren’t too many people around if she made a scene, and took a few forceful steps toward her, keeping his face as fearsome as he knew how to make it. The couple of maids who were up and about in the front hall of the place saw him and scarpered. At least someone was properly afraid of him.

Catriona Ferguson, his seventeen year old half-sister, was most definitely not. He sighed and dropped his fierce facade.

“Sorry, Catie, lass. We canna ride into London. Ye must be fresh and respectable looking.”

He didn’t want to add that her English relatives probably already had some preconceived notions about her and how she’d been raised. He’d be damned if he let any of them have the satisfaction of supposing themselves right.

Shockingly, she pressed her lips together in a face he dearly hoped she wouldn’t make too often when they were in London, as they were looking for a husband for her after all, and merely nodded.

“Let’s be off then,” she said, and he groaned to himself to hear the tears in her voice.

Bugger it all. Perhaps she was remembering their tense dinner when they’d arrived at the inn, weary and on edge. For the hundredth time she’d tried to finagle him back to Scotland and for the hundredth time he’d told her she needed to do her duty (whatever that meant, he’d heard it from his older brother Lachlan enough times and still wasn’t sure even in regards to himself) and meet her kinfolk.

Of course she was terrified to meet a bunch of grand titled English, and was trying to get out of it any way she could. The argument had degraded to her reminding him he’d missed her birthday, and not for the first time. He’d felt guilty and she’d gone to bed knowing she had the upper hand. It was going to bite him in the arse somehow, sometime soon.

God, but he didn’t want to get in the chaise. With a lingering look in the direction of his faraway homeland, he took a deep breath and climbed up after her.

He decided to take the wee bull by the horns. “Catie, we are going to London to meet your kin, and that is final.”

She sat in silence, staring out the window for several long miles and he closed his eyes to get some rest. He’d sat up in the inn’s pub for far too long the night before, drinking and letting one of the barmaids try to put him in a better mood. It hadn’t worked, but he’d appreciated her efforts until the owner of the place had chased her off with a tongue lashing and given him filthy glares until Quinn made his way to his room alone, just hours before dawn.

“I’m terribly excited for my season, brother,” she said after a while, in bizarre, stilted tones.

“What is that ye’re doing?” he asked, opening his eyes and staring at her. “Ye sound as if someone crammed something where they shouldn’t have.”

“I’m practicing my proper English”, she said.

“Well, dinna do it anymore or I shall turn this carriage around.”

“That’s fine with me,” she pouted. “I dinna know why I must go in the first place.”

“We’re going,” he sighed in exasperation.

“Who died and made ye the boss of me?” she asked, her face crumpling when she realized what she’d said.

It didn’t get any easier, missing Lachlan, even knowing the truth. Quinn reached over and smoothed her hair, knowing she felt bad about the outburst and not wanting to make it worse for her. He didn’t like lying to her. But how could he explain the truth? He couldn’t, so he had to let her believe Lachlan was dead.

Which made him the boss of her.

She crammed herself into the farthest corner of the carriage and pressed her face against the window. He patted her arm awkwardly.

His baby sister was the one person he held most dear. They’d been all each other had after her mother died and their sot of a father shuffled off the mortal coil shortly after. Their older brother Lachlan ignored them most of the time and bossed them around the rest of it.

At five years older than Catie, Quinn spent his whole life feeling half like he was responsible for her and half like they were partners in crime. Even after Aunt Gwen took Catie to live with her when the lass was thirteen, citing she was running wild and going barefoot and learning language a young lady needn’t know, Quinn had visited every chance he could. He missed her terribly those years, but only wanted the best for her. It was difficult transitioning to being the one in charge. It was a heavy burden, but one he was left to bear now that Lachlan was gone.

“I’m sorry I missed your birthday, lass,” Quinn said to change the subject. He’d rather her be mad at him than sad about Lachlan.

“Ye’ve missed a lot of them,” she said with a shrug, which didn’t make him feel any better. “I guess now I’m of an age where ye can be rid of me,” she continued, looking out the window with a poorly concealed sniffle.

“Och, it isna that at all,” he said. He took a deep breath. “It was your mother’s dying wish that ye meet your English relations and make a good match so ye can inherit.”

Catie sat in silence. She was an infant when her mother died and he didn’t think she remembered a thing about her. She had a miniature portrait and a locket and those were her only keepsakes. At least Quinn remembered a bit about his mother. He made to pat her comfortingly when she came back at him with the full force of her attitude.

“Inherit what?” she snorted. “My share of the farm? I’m better off staying with Auntie Gwen than be underfoot there. Though I’m much better at caring for goats than I was. I should just marry one of the goatherds, we get on well enough.”

“Catie, ye canna marry a goatherd, not even if ye managed to convince me ye were in love with one of them.” He held up his hand to stop any cheek. “Dinna start with me. I know one is bald as an egg with a great hooked nose, and the other is seventy if he’s a day.”

“Well, perhaps I’m not nearly as shallow as ye are, Quinn,” she said. “Love is supposed to be blind.”

He ignored her and with another deep breath tried to explain. “Ye wee terror, ye are a verra rich lass. Your mother left ye an inheritance that ye can only collect when ye’re properly wed.”

She gawped at him. “We’re rich?” she asked, then frowned. “We dinna act rich. I’ve mended far more stockings than a rich person should have to.”

“We are not rich,” he clarified. “Ye are. And only when ye’re married. Properly,” he added with an eyeroll.