To Tempt A Rogue (8 page)

“They don't need to eat, Mrs. Mullins. A clean room and a warm fire will suffice.” Nathaniel nearly choked on those final words, knowing full well the women would find neither in this castle. “I assume your coach and driver have already found their way to my stable. I'll send a servant to assist them and show them where they may bed down. Mrs. Mullins will escort you to your chamber. Good night.”

“We're likely to break our necks if we go there,” the maid declared. “ 'Tis dark as a tomb.”

Nathaniel felt a spark of encouragement light his chest. Maybe this would all end far easier than he imagined and the women's brave façade would crumble. It was dark and foreboding in the arched stone hallway, seemingly steeped in mystery. Perhaps the new governess would make the prudent and wise decision to leave at once.

“I am sure Mrs. Mullins can supply us with candles to help illuminate the way,” Miss Sainthill said stubbornly.

Nathaniel compressed his lips in an amused sneer. He could not help but admire her spirit. She looked wilted, unhappy and a bit scared, yet she did not want for courage. She and her maid had been treated appallingly, as if they both carried a rank odor, yet Miss Sainthill had kept her temper and her dignity. She would not be put out, no matter how rudely treated.

“We can discuss your situation in the morning, Miss Sainthill. I breakfast at eight. Sharp.”

Her hazel eyes glinted at him in irritation and Nathaniel waited for the explosion, anticipating the ensuing burst of temper with far more delight than was proper. But she disappointed him by uttering a chilly, polite, “Good night, Mr. Wainwright. I shall see you at breakfast.”

Whipping about, Nathaniel deliberately stalked away in the opposite direction, which he seldom used. It was probably crawling with spiders and other vermin, but it afforded him the type of dismissive exit he needed.

The moment he was alone, Nathaniel expelled a deep sigh. After living in the castle for a few weeks he realized it was essential that he have assistance in caring for the children. From what little he had seen of her character and demeanor, a woman like Harriet Sainthill was an excellent choice for the job. Yet he knew it would be foolhardy to let her remain.

He had recognized her and while he strongly doubted she had done the same, perhaps in time she would discern his true identity. Secrecy was the key to making this plan succeed. He could ill afford to have someone with Miss Sainthill's keen eye around.

Relieved to have found a familiar staircase, Nathaniel climbed it slowly, pondering how he would get rid of the new governess without arousing undue suspicion. Then he smiled. Once she learned that the children were not in residence, it would take very little encouragement to get her to pack her bags and set off for England. Without any delay.

 

 

Harriet suspected she would get a small measure of sleep and when the dull glow of morning light crept through the chink in the shutters directly into her eyes she knew she was right. Her head felt heavy and dull from lack of proper rest, her mouth and throat parched. It was difficult to sleep in strange surroundings under the best of circumstances and the accommodations at Hillsdale Castle hardly qualified as the best.

She had forgone all of her usual bedtime rituals, one hundred brush strokes to her hair before braiding it, a favorite passage read from one of her beloved books while she snuggled beneath the covers. The moment her battered portmanteau had appeared in the bedchamber Harriet had donned her nightgown and leapt into bed, trying not to reflect upon the events of the day or think about her plans for the morning.

And now morning had arrived. Harriet sat up, clutching the covers to her chest to ward off the chill in the room. She glanced over to the corner where Kate lay, and listened with envy to the heavy regular breathing of deep sleep. At least it was no longer the loud, thundering snores that had echoed off the stone walls throughout the long night. Though claiming to be frightened and unsettled, the maid had apparently experienced no trouble sleeping.

Harriet did not bother to wake Kate, deciding it was easier to dress for breakfast without listening to the maid's usual patter of doom and gloom. She was perfectly capable of preparing herself for breakfast. Besides, Kate would be returning to England in a day or two. It was imperative that Harriet learn to care for herself and that included getting dressed each morning and undressed each evening. Unassisted.

With a gentle sigh she rose from the bed and went through her luggage. It was not difficult to find an appropriate outfit, since she had purposely taken her dullest and most serviceable gowns. At her sister Elizabeth's insistence she had also included two of her most flattering evening dresses, since it was not unheard of that a governess be asked, on occasion, to join the family for a social evening. Especially if an extra female was needed to make up the numbers at a dinner party or a card game.

Of course, those instances occurred in a normal household. Harriet nearly laughed out loud, trying to imagine it happening in this strange, remote place. When pigs fly, perhaps.

Wrinkling her nose with distaste, Harriet dipped her fingers gingerly into the cold water that remained in the porcelain basin from last night and washed her hands and face. With nimble movements she deftly pulled her hair into a tight, proper knot and secured it with several hairpins.

There. She was ready. Yet as Harriet checked her reflection in the dull mirror, she felt suddenly overcome with a sense of melancholy. She had never been a beauty, nor professed any aspirations to become one. Yet the woman who looked back from the mirror seemed old beyond her years—severe, restrained, dull. In short, a governess.

Was this truly the type of life she sought? She had felt so sure of her decision when it had been made months ago, but the reality of the situation was far from her imaginings. She was not surrounded by sweet, modest, easy to manage children. Instead there was a grumbling employer, surly servants, and accommodations that left much to be desired.

Granted, they had hardly arrived under the best of circumstances, catching the household unaware, late in the evening, in dreadful weather. And she had not met the children, so it really was far too early to pass judgment.

Comforted by this notion, Harriet picked up her warmest shawl and quietly left the bedchamber. Knowing better than to expect a servant to be available to lead her to the dining room, she gamely set out on her own. The rain that had started earlier in the morning was now a full-blown storm. Lightning flashed through the windows, illuminating the shadowed hall with eerie, uneven bursts of light.

Harriet stole a nervous glance over her shoulder and for an instant considered returning to her room. But a quick look at the timepiece pinned to her gown confirmed she would be late if she did not move ahead. Imagining the smug, disapproving expression on Mr. Wainwright's face spurred her onward.

She turned another corner and her stomach gave a little twitch. Was this wing of the castle completely uninhabited? She had been walking, fairly rapidly, for nearly ten minutes and had encountered no one. Even the surly, disapproving features of the housekeeper, Mrs. Mullins, would be a welcome sight.

At last Harriet came to a staircase. She was uncertain if this was the one she had used last night, but she knew the dining room would be located downstairs, so she descended, clutching the banister tightly to keep her footing. Once she gained the landing, Harriet compressed her lips, unsure of which direction to turn.

A movement caught her eye, the flutter of a figure garbed in a simple mud-brown dress that nearly blended into the stone walls. Finally, a servant was found!

“Hello,” Harriet called out. “Good morning. I am the new governess, Miss Sainthill. I was wondering if you would be so kind as to show me to the dining room? Mr. Wainwright is expecting me to join him for breakfast.”

Harriet moved forward quickly as she spoke, hoping to gain an answer, but as she drew near the candle placed in the wall sconce flickered as though caught by the wind, the light went out and the servant in the mud-brown garment simply disappeared.

Harriet stood rooted to the spot, squinting into the dull light, uncertain if it was her eyes, her imagination or her lack of sleep playing tricks on her mind. Yet she was certain she had seen
something.

A sudden, exploding crack of thunder reverberated through her very bones, sending a shiver up her spine. Streaks of color lit up the hallway and for an instant she saw a Scottish warrior, fierce, bloodied and wild, with his sword raised high.

Her mouth fell open in horror, but the scream died within her throat when she realized she was staring at a portrait, an image captured on canvas yet so real and lifelike it could strike terror upon any unsuspecting fool. Harriet winced, then shook her head, scolding herself for allowing her imagination such free, lurid rein. She was by nature a reasonable and logical woman, yet the eerie atmosphere of this strange castle was addling her wits.

Her heart continued to pound in an unnatural, rapid rhythm, but she was unable to resist moving closer to the portrait, searching among the proud, handsome features of the subject for a family resemblance to her new employer. She could see none in coloring, stature or physical characteristics, yet this noble warrior and Mr. Wainwright shared one rather striking similarity.

They were the kind of man that caught a woman's eye.

An odd noise behind her distracted her study. She tilted her head to one side and listened intently, but did not turn around. She heard it again. Was that the creak of a footstep?

“Good morning, Miss Sainthill.”

Harriet gasped, then brought her hand to cover her mouth. She swung around. “Ahh, s . . . shirh.”

She had lost control of her voice, her words were garbled. She sniffed, hiccupped then with sheer force of will slowed her breathing to normal.

“Mr. Wainwright. You startled me. Good morning.”

She caught herself before dipping into a curtsey, remembering he was a mister and not a lord. His dark eyes gleamed like the blade of a sword, but hidden beneath their depths she saw the hint of amusement.

He had deliberately set out to frighten her! Harriet felt certain of it. But why? Did he enjoy tormenting his employees, or had he already taken a specific dislike to her?

“You are already five minutes late, Miss Sainthill, and instead of rushing to the dining room I find you dallying in my portrait gallery,” Mr. Wainwright said, clasping his hands behind his back with an air of authority. “You'll have to do much better in future. I abhor tardiness.”

Harriet nodded stiffly, lowering her eyes in a docile, submissive gesture. Inside she was seething, with indignation and annoyance, but it would be neither prudent nor proper to show her true feelings.

“If you would lead the way, Mr. Wainwright, your breakfast will not be delayed any longer,” she said. And then, finding it utterly impossible to bear the brunt of his censure when she was so unjustly accused, Harriet could not stop herself from adding, “Unfortunately I was not supplied with a map last night and consequently have no idea where the dining room is located.”

He angled his head back slightly and smiled. She could not tell if he was annoyed or amused by her comments, but his direct gaze never wavered. The moment became oddly intimate. Harriet felt the uncomfortable heat of a blush spread up her neck to her cheeks and she fervently hoped the dull light would hide her reaction.

“This way,” he said curtly.

He did not offer his arm to escort her, as a proper gentleman should, yet Harriet could not fault his actions. She was the governess, not a guest, and Mr. Wainwright was far from a proper gentleman.

There was no further conversation between them and Harriet used the respite to compose herself. When they reached the wide stone archway that led into the long, narrow dining hall, Mr. Wainwright paused and indicated she should precede him.

As she brushed past him, Harriet could not help but breathe in the scent of him—musky and male. Up close, she could see that he was lean, sinewy, and well-muscled. His clothes were of the highest quality, obviously fashioned by an expert London tailor, yet there was an unkempt, uncared for look about them that was puzzling. Why would a man spend so much coin on such fine garments and then neglect to pay a servant to properly care for them?

Aside from the merchants in the village of Harrowby where she had grown up, Harriet had little direct experience with men of business. Yet Mr. Wainwright was unlike any man she had ever known, noble or common.

She seated herself in the chair he offered and watched him closely as he took the seat directly to her left. The room was long and narrow, with a set of mullioned windows running along one side allowing in the natural light. Hung high in the rafters of the soaring ceiling were several faded banners and a tapestry depicting an ancient war scene.

The furnishings were dark, heavy, and at least two centuries old. Time had not interrupted this place. Harriet could easily imagine rushes strewn on the floor, dogs roaming about searching for scraps of food, and men-at-arms throwing dice and drinking in the corner.

There was no sideboard laden with the morning's offerings, but she did not have to wait long for her meal. A servant entered the room, bearing two covered dishes. He placed one in front of each of them, then left the room and returned with two large tankards of ale.

Harriet gave a small start when the beverage was plunked down on the table, sloshing over the side onto the wood. Perhaps that was the reason no tablecloth was used?

Deciding she needed to gain at least one ally in the household, Harriet turned to thank the man who had brought the food. His thin chest puffed out with pride and she tried not to stare at his odd appearance. He was a grizzled old man with nary a hair on his shiny bald head, a gap-toothed grin and a pair of white, bushy eyebrows that seemed to swallow up his forehead. He was dressed in coarse rustic clothing, and his worn and muddy boots seemed more suited for outdoor work.