To Tempt A Rogue (18 page)

But what other choice did he have? None whatsoever. Tonight was a prime example of how ill-equipped he was to properly care for the children on his own. Their welfare was his key concern. He must have a capable governess to take charge of them.

Nathaniel tightened his jaw. There was one alternative. He could send Harriet away and hire a Scottish woman to take charge of Phoebe, Jeanne Marie, and Gregory. Perhaps that was the more cautious, prudent course to take.

Yet the truth was, he did not want Harriet to leave. As he thought of her, Nathaniel felt his chest constrict with the wild mix of emotions she always inspired in him. For the time being, he would stay the course as it was plotted, ever alert to any signs of danger.

And pray he was not taking any unnecessary risk that would prove costly in the end.

“Why don't you let me stay? Please. I can be of great help to you, Miss Harriet.” Kate, her voice low and pleading, hung her head out the carriage window that she had moments ago been bundled inside, and begged unashamedly.

“Have a safe journey,” Harriet called out. She nodded to John Coachman, indicating that he should leave. The servant touched the rim of his hat, then picked up the carriage reins. “Now Kate, don't forget to deliver all my letters to the family. Especially those meant for my sister Elizabeth.”

“Please, Miss. I really want to stay!”

The carriage lurched forward, the wheels crunching loudly on the stones. For an instant, doubt assailed Harriet. She could use all the help she could muster and while not the most pleasant of companions, Kate had proved to be a competent maid. And she was a familiar face in this hostile and alien environment.

The older woman leaned farther out the window and made an impatient gesture with her hand. Harriet steeled herself to remain motionless, knowing it would be utterly ridiculous to call the servant back.

Harriet was a governess in this household. She was not entitled to, nor did she require, a personal maid. Even in these unusual circumstance, Harriet could not see her way clear to making an exception. Still, she did feel a jolt of remorse when the carriage turned at the bend in the road and disappeared from sight.

Her only assured route of escape was now cut off.

“Miss Sainthill! What are you doing out here all alone on such a windy, cold morning?”

Harriet whirled about, poised with a ready answer, yet for a moment she was robbed of her voice. Duncan McTate approached, his long, muscular legs making short work of the distance across the courtyard. His long,
bare,
muscular legs.

Saints above, it had to be near freezing outside and the man was walking about half-dressed, with parts of his limbs exposed to the elements. He quickly drew closer, looking broader and taller than he had last night and far more imposing.

Which seemed ridiculous since the daft man was wearing a skirt.

Though she tried to act as if nothing was out of the ordinary, Harriet knew her eyes must be flaring wide as saucers as she got her first close-up view of a man dressed in a kilt. Hand-knit wool stockings gathered at the knee, a sporran tied about his waist and a kilt that allowed for ample glimpses of his muscled thighs and bare knees.

“Good morning, Mr. McTate,” she finally managed.

“You're staring at my legs, lass, and looking more than a bit flabbergasted. Have you never seen a true Scotsman wearing the plaid?”

“Ah, no, I haven't,” Harriet said in what she hoped was a casual voice. “ 'Tis a most unusual sight. Especially since I thought it was illegal to wear such attire.”

“Bloody English.” McTate gave a harsh laugh. “It takes more than an Act of Parliament to crush a man's heritage. Especially a proud Scot.”

Harriet made a pensive noise in the back of her throat. “I imagine you are safe enough from the arm of English law up here. And your countrymen no doubt applaud your commitment to keeping the old traditions alive.”

“Not entirely. If a tartan-clad Highlander appeared in a Lowland town a few years ago, he would have been locked up, if not shot on sight. The Highlanders have long been regarded as barbarous thieves by Lowland Scots.”

“I cannot imagine why,” Harriet remarked dryly. McTate cocked one of his arrogant eyebrows. Too late, Harriet realized she had insulted the man and his heritage. Thankfully he decided to ignore it.

“ 'Tis true that since the battle of Culloden the tartan was associated with revolt and lawlessness,” McTate explained. “But the loyal service of Scottish regiments in the Colonial conflicts and the war with Napoleon have won them the right to once again wear the traditional garb of their forefathers. Even some of the English have taken to wearing such outfits when visiting our fair land.”

Harriet choked back a laugh. “I've yet to see Mr. Wainwright succumb to that temptation.”

“You sound disappointed.” McTate's nostrils flared with amusement. “There's no need to feel as if you are missing anything of grave importance. Truth be told, my legs are far more impressive than Wainwright's.”

Harriet turned her head up sharply. McTate gave her a thoroughly wicked smile, then winked. The gesture immediately put Harriet's back up. McTate was boyish, charming, and exceedingly handsome. And he knew it.

“I can assure you, Mr. McTate, I have no interest in Mr. Wainwright's limbs. Bare or otherwise.”

“Odd. That's not what I hear.”

Harriet's eyes narrowed at the insolent remark. Had the servants been gossiping? Or even worse, had Mr. Wainwright said something? That thought brought an acid taste to Harriet's mouth. She stared hard at the Scotsman and soon realized he was trying much too hard to look innocent. Suspicion ignited inside her.

“I see you enjoy fishing, Mr. McTate,” Harriet said flatly. “Might I suggest you try your luck at the river near the mountain's edge? You are certainly apt to catch more there than here.”

“Och, righteous indignation. Another sure sign that I've hit a nerve of truth.” He smirked knowingly at her, as if he knew of her annoyance and was amused by it.

There were a few moments of terse silence. Harriet was not about to let her temper get the best of her, and yet she knew she could not let this pass. Even if there were more than a grain of truth in McTate's words.

“Well, if you are in the mood to be truthful, Mr. McTate, perhaps you could tell me more about your friendship with Mr. Wainwright. Are you two in business together? Or is your acquaintance of longer standing? And what of his wards? They call you uncle, yet Mr. Wainwright reported you are not a relation.”

McTate stared at her with undisguised admiration. “There is no better defense than a strong offense, as any army general will attest.” Though he smiled at her, something that fleetingly looked like guilt twisted in his rugged face. “I think the wisest course would be for me to call a truce. It seems only fair that we are both allowed our little secrets.”

His words offered Harriet limited comfort, for they merely confirmed what she had always suspected. All was not as it seemed to be with Mr. Wainwright and the children. She briefly considered pressing McTate for information, but she realized that would be futile. Though he teased and joked about his friend, there was no doubting his loyalty to Mr. Wainwright. She would learn nothing from the Scotsman.

“A truce.” She thrust out her hand.

He took it instantly and held it far longer than was proper. The rogue. “I am delighted we were able to come to such a civilized agreement, Miss Sainthill. I make it a point never to be at odds with beautiful young women.”

“Our truce extends to your glib tongue, Mr. McTate,” Harriet said with a stern warning in her voice. “I am neither young nor beautiful, as we are both well aware.”

“You are an exceedingly handsome woman,” he replied, with a smile weaving through his silky tones. “Your genuine modesty lends you an inner beauty and charm that is unique and tantalizing to any man with eyes in his head.”

Despite her attempts to quell it, a burst of laughter bubbled up and escaped from Harriet's lips. It was strange how such a heated exchange had lifted her spirits. “Duncan McTate, you are by far the most shameless man I have ever met.”

“Stop flattering me, lass, or you'll put me to the blush.”

Harriet tilted her chin to an impertinent angle. “Any man who has the nerve to be seen in public with a large portion of his limbs exposed has no right to any blushes.”

“Hmm, 'tis not only the exposed limbs but the draft that brings the color to a man's face—and other unmentionable parts of the anatomy.”

Harriet felt her spine begin to stiffen, then caught sight of McTate's devilish expression. It was clear from his sparkling eyes that Duncan McTate was simply unable to resist the opportunity to shake a female's composure. And he very nearly succeeded with those final remarks. She decided she had no choice but to let the comment pass with nary a reaction. For the sake of her newly established truce. And her sanity.

“Have you breakfasted yet this morning?” Harriet asked.

“No, and I am feeling rather hungry now that you mention it.”

She cleared her throat. “Mrs. Mullins sets a most unusual table. I've learned during my brief stay that most of the items are best eaten hot. Shall we?”

They strolled with an almost practiced elegance across the courtyard. Harriet nodded her thanks demurely when Mr. McTate held the door for her, the glee of anticipation rising. When they entered the dining room Harriet knew she must be grinning like a well fed cat, for she could hardly wait to see McTate's reaction after he took his first large bite of Mrs. Mullins's breakfast fare.

Harriet anxiously checked her timepiece again. The children were over a half hour late. Nathaniel and McTate had taken them on an exploratory journey through the oldest section of the castle, promising faithfully to return in time for a few afternoon lessons. But they were long overdue and Harriet had started to worry.

Making up her mind to take action rather than sit and wait, Harriet bounded out of the library and wove her way through the maze of hallways at the far edge of the castle. This was unknown territory to her. The wooden beams and stonework in this section were the most ancient she had encountered, making her wonder again exactly how many centuries this dwelling had stood on this spot.

She slowed her gait and walked carefully along the uneven floor, glad that the highly placed narrow windows allowed shafts of sunlight to illuminate the way. This would not be a place one would wish to fall and injure a limb, for it could be days before someone thought to search the area.

The folds of her gray skirt rustled softly around her ankles. Now that the children had arrived Harriet had resumed wearing her dull, serviceable gowns, as befitting her position as governess. Though a feminine part of her nature occasionally longed for a more colorful, attractive garment, especially when in the company of her handsome employer, she wore these gowns to remind herself of her proper place in the household. And her employer's life.

When she at last reached the end of the hallway, Harriet came to a formidable door barring her way. It was pitted and weathered with age, but appeared sturdy and strong. Her hand formed a fist and she pounded on it, then laughed at herself when there was no answer. If the men and children had come this way the door would most likely be open. If they had not, then who could possibly be on the other side to admit her?

Harriet debated turning around and retracing her steps, but further inspection revealed the door was not locked. She slowly turned the great iron handle. With a bit of effort and a strong push it swung open.

She paused, her heart pounding with excitement as she stepped through it. On the other side was a giant of a room, with stone walls soaring so high she had to squint to see the heavy wooden beams of the ceiling. The sun streamed through arched windows casting soft rays of light on the long oak banquet table that sat prominently in the middle of the room.

The floor was smooth and even, worn down to an almost glass-like consistency from centuries of treading feet. The faded tapestries hanging on the wall depicted the legendary Highland feats of days long ago. The bravery of bold knights, the chastity of fair maidens, the threat of mythical beasts.

My goodness, I could explore this place for weeks and still be amazed at what I discover,
Harriet thought, as she stared, entranced by her surroundings.

The distinctive sound of steel clanging on steel caught her notice and she realized she was not alone. Dipping her head, she peered curiously toward the far end of the room and spied two figures engaged in a spirited bout of swordplay. It took but a moment to determine that it was Nathaniel and McTate.

Realizing the children must be near, she scanned the perimeter of the room and quickly located them. They were perched together on an oversized, heavy wooden chair that was set on a raised dais and pushed against the stone wall. It resembled a medieval throne and was so big that all three could sit comfortably together on the center cushion. Their eyes were riveted on the dueling men and they shouted and called out enthusiastically as the combatants thrust and parried.

Both men were stripped down to their breeches and shirts and were dripping with sweat. They grunted and groaned in mock agony, delighting their young audience with their antics. Yet Harriet could see that they were both skilled swordsmen, taking care to provide excellent entertainment while staying out of harm's way.

The children let out another loud cheer, clapping and hooting wildly. Harriet moved closer to the action, drawn by the metallic clang of the swords and the sight of the two enticing men who wielded them.

McTate was the larger of the two, but that did not automatically give him a greater advantage. Nathaniel was agile and quick on his feet, weaving back and forth to avoid contact, then suddenly moving forward to attack. With an impressive blur of sword movement he drove McTate toward the massive fireplace in the center of the room. The Scotsman expertly deflected his opponent's thrust, but Harriet detected a slight drooping of his left shoulder, a sure sign the Scot was tiring.