When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (2 page)

“Find somebody else.”

Hargrave shook his head. “There is no one else, but even if there were, the only way he would inherit is upon your death. You cannot simply hand your title to another. It is yours by right and by blood, as it will be your son’s.”

“I havnae any bairns.”

“Yet. Your eldest living son shall one day inherit both title and estate. To marry and beget an heir is the duty of every—”

“Duty?” Jamie squeezed the wood of his chair until he heard it begin to crack. “My duty is tae care fer my mam and sister. Will this bluidy English title help me dae that?”

His lips tightened, his eyes dropped briefly, and he released a breath. “The scope of your responsibilities must necessarily expand, Mr. Kilbrenner. There are people whose lives depend upon your direct involvement in the estate.”

Jamie frowned. “Who?”

“The villagers who live near Shankwood Hall. Servants. Tenants. Many have dwelt upon Tannenbrook lands for generations. Should you shrug away your obligations, the consequences would be dire for them.”

Jamie’s response was a single word, but it emerged as a contemptuous grumble: “Sassenachs.”

“They are English, yes. English women. English children. English farmers who work the soil as hard as your fellow Scots.”

“No’ my people.”

Jamie’s gaze was fixed upon Hargrave, so he was startled to hear his mother’s voice, gentle and firm, from the doorway to the kitchen. “It appears they are, Jamie.”

His eyes flew to hers. “He would have me leave here, Mam.” He swallowed. Leave Alison? Leave the bairns they would have together, the cottage he had dreamed of building for them after their marriage, the workshop McFadden would pass to him once the old mason realized he could wield a chisel no longer? No. Jamie’s life—his future—lay in Netherdunnie. He would not toss it away for a title he’d never wanted. “Who would care fer ye while I am in bluidy England?”

Mam moved several steps toward him, her eyes calm, her brow crinkling. “Ye know yer duty, son. In life, our plans can last only sae long as they make guid sense. Yer faither’s death should hae taught ye as much.”

Hargrave stood and cleared his throat. “Funds will be provided by the estate for the care of your mother and sister, Mr. Kilbrenner. Whatever your earnings as a mason might have been, they cannot match the living you may now provide as the Earl of Tannenbrook.”

“Ye maun gae, Jamie,” Mam said quietly.

He shoved from his chair. Approached his small mother. Grasped her roughened hands in his. “I dinna want this, Mam,” he murmured desperately, feeling like a wee lad again, begging her permission to go fishing rather than sweep floors at the smithy.

Her answer, as it had then, shone in her steady eyes, the relaxed, unsmiling mouth. She accepted what life demanded of her, and he must do the same.

He let her fingers slide through his, feeling his future crack along a fault he’d failed to see. In the space of seconds, the life he’d been carving for himself split open and crumbled into something unrecognizable. Unwanted. Unavoidable.

“We should depart as soon as possible, Mr. Kilbrenner. The fifth earl suffered a long illness, and the estate has fallen into some disrepair. Many critical matters require your attention.”

Gritting his teeth, he dropped his eyes to his boots. Curled his fingers into fists. “Weel-a-weel,” he muttered. “In the mornin’. First light. Ye may stay fer dinner if ye like.”

“Oh, but—”

“I hae matters of my oon tae attend, Mr. Hargrave.” He did not care that his voice emerged as a bark or that Hargrave was twenty years his elder or that his mother was frowning at his rudeness. “An’ that is how it shall be. Ye ken?”

A brief silence was followed by Hargrave’s reply, muted and respectful—disturbing to Jamie’s ears. “Yes, my lord.”

*~*~*

She was there, waiting beneath the eave. When he descended the last hill on the road to her father’s farm, sodden to the bone and hollowed out until he echoed inside, he saw first the flowered cotton of her skirts, then the wisps of her hair, a shade darker than wet sandstone.

“Alison,” he murmured, seeing her bonnie face peeking around the corner of the stone dairy barn, her smile welcoming and relieved. He loped the remaining fifty yards, ducking past a low-hanging oak limb. He swiped at the wet leaves with one hand and reached for her waist with the other, swooping in to take her lips with his.

Husky, feminine laughter greeted him. Strong, feminine hands snaked beneath his arms to clutch his back. “Jamie,” she mumbled against his mouth as her firm bosoms pressed into his chest. “I wondered if ye’d come.”

He loved her voice, low and brambly. He loved that she was tall and robust, her muscles sleek from tending cows and wringing laundry and hauling water. Whenever her thighs squeezed his hips, their strength left him little fear that he would break her.

And now, he must leave her behind. Although it would only be for a short while, the ache of their parting sliced sharp and cold.

“Ah, Alison,” he groaned, dropping his forehead upon her broad shoulder, feeling her stroke his back in long, soothing motions.

“Where hae ye been? I waited an hour longer than I should hae. Mam will be wonderin’ why it takes sae long tae milk four cows. What kept ye?”

She always smelled the same, like grass and earth and milk. Not sweet or flowery, but good. Just good. He breathed her in, hoping he could hold a bit of her inside him while he was gone. “I’ve news,” he rasped. “I dinna like it. But I must leave fer England.”

Her muscles tensed against him, freezing in place. Her cheek was warm against his ear. “England?”

He pulled away long enough to explain about Mr. Hargrave and the bloody English title he did not want. He watched the color fade from her cheeks as he described his new circumstances. “There be an estate, one I must see tae straight away. But I swear this tae ye, my bonnie Alison: I shall return here. And when I dae, we shall marry. Nothin’ shall stop us. Nothin’ has changed.”

Eyes lowered to his chest, she idly plucked at his shirt’s ties, her body terribly still.

“Luik at me,” he demanded.

She complied, but eyes typically as warm as fresh-brewed tea shone flat and solemn. Wide lips that usually tilted with a crooked smile now wore a bittersweet curve.

He squeezed her shoulders. Ran one hand over the soft, straight hair she wore in a plait. “I intend tae marry ye, lass. A Sassenach title changes nothin’ of my plans fer us.”

Shaking her head, she stood on her toes to lay a gentle kiss upon his lips. “Ye’ll hae much tae worry ye withoot frettin’ over me, Jamie. Ye’re a lord now. Take care of what ye must.”

He was losing her. He could see it, feel it, hear it in her voice and her posture and the way she avoided his gaze. “I shall write ye. Letters upon letters. Every day. And ye shall write me back.”

She patted his chest. “Weel-a-weel.”

“And when I return tae Netherdunnie, ye shall become my bride, Alison. Ye shall become Lady Tannenbrook. Our bairns shall live grand lives.”

Her crooked smile reappeared, displaying the chipped tooth he so loved. But her eyes remained quiet. Sad. “Grand indeed, Jamie. Grand indeed.”

He held her tight, then, feeling her arms around his waist, her cheek against his chest. She doubted him, obviously having the same thoughts he’d had upon hearing Hargrave’s news—a stonemason had no business being an earl, and a dairyman’s daughter was even less suited to the role of countess. But he did not care. Alison was the lass he loved, and she was the one he would marry, title or no.

“I shall return,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “Ye must wait fer me, Alison. Will ye dae that?”

Her arms squeezed his waist in silent reassurance. Around them water poured out of clouds and mist, forming a solid curtain off the eave of the barn. The sound muffled her sigh, drowned his heartbeat until he could almost believe this was an ordinary day, an ordinary embrace with his bonnie love. Not a goodbye.

“Wait fer me, lass,” he begged, clutching her tighter. “I shall return. That’s a promise I mean tae keep.”

*~*~*

One year later …

Nothing had changed. Not the approach to Netherdunnie with its ripe, green rolls of land and muddy, shorn sheep. Not the odd sandstone cottage with its sagging roof and three ash trees just before the last bend.

“Not even the bluidy weather,” James muttered to himself, tapping a knuckle against the carriage’s window frame, listening to the rain compete with the creak and rattle of the vehicle.

“Bloody
weather.” The voice came from beside him. It was English, pure and aristocratic. Amused. “Have a care, Tannenbrook. Your Scot is showing.”

James glanced to his friend, Lucien Wyatt, a dark-eyed, black-haired second son wearing a perpetual half-grin upon his too-handsome face. “We are
in
Scotland, ye daft sod.”

“Leave him be, Luc.” The quiet reprimand came from Gregory, Lucien’s older brother. Thanks to a long nose, Gregory was not nearly so pretty, but his calm, serious nature suited his role as their father’s heir. “It is the first time he’s clapped eyes on his village in a year.”

Lucien chuckled. “I doubt the village is what he envisions when he falls abed each night.”

James shoved at Luc’s lean shoulder, letting a smile take his lips when his friend winced and rubbed the spot. “That is my future countess you speak of. Mind your tongue.”

Though only a year younger than James, Luc was a far sight more devil-may-care, having few responsibilities apart from counting the skirts he managed to lift. He and Gregory were the sons of Lord Atherbourne, whose estate, Thornbridge Park, neighbored his own in Derbyshire.

Neighbors. James wanted to laugh aloud at the thought. Even the names of the two properties compared poorly. Thornbridge Park was a shimmering, golden palace composed of exquisite Palladian symmetry and the finest limestone. Shankwood Hall, on the other hand, was composed of square blocks with no pediments, no columns. Just a series of chimneys poking at the sky like the last, wiry hairs upon old McFadden’s head. When James had first glimpsed his crumbling gray sprawl, he’d noted immediately the deterioration: The widening cracks beneath the first floor. Stone walls discolored red by fire on the second floor.

The narrow, spidery windows infrequently dotting the façade gave it little elegance. Indeed, the entire structure might as well have been a prison for all its beauty. The house ran in an unimpressive, ungainly U around an overgrown courtyard. All in all, there was little to recommend it apart from size and a certain sturdiness. It had lasted more than two hundred years, after all.

Hargrave had spent the entire journey to Derbyshire explaining the repairs that must be approved and funded. Ever efficient and helpful, the solicitor had made a list. He had estimated that, with the income from the estate’s farms and rents, the repairs would take a mere ten years. Ten. Years.

Upon his arrival at Shankwood, James had wanted nothing more than to ball Hargrave’s list into a wad and shove the paper down the solicitor’s narrow throat. Then, he’d wanted to leave the way he’d come—leave England and return to Scotland. To Alison.

Instead, he had grudgingly agreed to meet the servants who had stayed on after the fifth earl’s death. Most of them were nearly as aged as the hall itself, but they had greeted him as though he were both a long-lost son and their liege lord. It had been a wee bit embarrassing, in truth, but he’d been unable to rebuff their kindness. Afterward, he had reluctantly agreed to tour the village. This had sealed his fate in a way he could not have predicted.

Shankwood Hall sat squarely—and he did mean
squarely
—in the midst of a picturesque village known, oddly enough, as Shankwood. Home to fewer than seventy people, the tiny collection of humble stone cottages and shops had instantly reminded him of Netherdunnie.

He’d first encountered the blacksmith, Jones, whose broad grin and bulging forearms had reminded him of his father. Then, he’d met the Starlings, an ancient, kindly pair of sisters who took in sewing when their fingers did not pain them. “The rain, you know,” they’d whispered confidingly as they had poured him a cup of the finest ale he’d ever tasted. Over the following week, he’d met every villager, down to the new babe born to Mr. and Mrs. Fellowes—their fifth child, a boy they had named James in honor of their new lord.

All the natural Scots resistance had drained from him like ale from a cracked tankard. In every face, he had seen his mother, his father, McFadden or Nellie or dozens of others he had known for a lifetime. They were familiar, these people. Perhaps they did not speak like him, but as Hargrave incessantly repeated, they
needed
him.

No one else was permitted to manage their rents or authorize repairs to their roofs or approve the construction of a new bakehouse. Only he, James Kilbrenner, the sixth Earl of Tannenbrook, could do these things. Without him, every servant and villager would eventually be forced to leave their home.

And so, he had stayed. Through the summer, he’d become acquainted with Gregory and Lucien, who were fascinated with his accent and his size, his facility with stonework and his rough manner.