Her Highland Protector. Ann Lethbridge
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friendly glances she’d given him earlier. He felt the loss as the soft scent of something spicy lingered in the air. Complex, like her. All bright sharp edges underpinned by subtle femininity.
He didn’t want the job of guardian. It was not what he had been offered. He had been hoping to learn things that would stand him and his family in good stead for the future. Matters of business. And perhaps even of the law. Things that might set his feet on the path to a better future.
‘How did you hear of my meeting with Lady Jenna?’ he asked.
‘One of the lasses hired in from the town was on her way home when she saw a fight on the road and raised the alarm. By the time the message reached me, the pair of you were at the gate.’ He gestured to the window. ‘I watched ye come through.’
The muscles in his shoulders tightened. He eyed his chief warily. What else had the girl seen? Not their kiss, apparently, or Carrick would not be looking so calm. At least that he would keep to himself for both their sakes. ‘What happens with regard to the position of under-secretary? Does Mr McDougall not require my services?’
It was McDougall, Carrick’s secretary, he’d originally been employed to assist.
Carrick rubbed his hands together. ‘I am sure Lady Jenna will take little time away from your other duties.’
Niall wasn’t so sure about that, but he could see he’d been well and truly snared. Two duties for the price of one, when nursemaid to a wilful lass ought to be paid double. Rumour did not lie. Carrick was known to be a man who would not spend a shilling where he could make a bargain for a sixpence. He bowed his assent, as if he had a choice.
Carrick dismissed him with a flick of his fingers. ‘I will see you at dinner, then. That is all.’
Chapter Two
Jenna raked the comb through her tangled curls, her eyes watering with the pain. ‘He gave his word and he broke it. Why?’
‘My lady.’ Mary McDougall, her maid, grabbed unsuccessfully for the comb. ‘I dinna ken who you are talking about.’
‘That mealy-mouthed Scot who came to work with your father. He told Lord Carrick about the footpads when he swore he would not. Currying favour.’ And now Lord Carrick would think her still the hoyden she had been when she first came under his care when her father died, instead of a responsible woman, ready to take up the reins of her own life.
‘It seems to have worked, too. He is to dine with us tonight.’ And replace Carrick as her guardian in his absence. How could he leave now, when he had promised to take her to Edinburgh?
It was as if he was deliberately dragging his feet on the issue of her finding a husband. He had agreed it was the right next step and had promised her a Season. Her estates, her people, had been left without a caring hand for far too long.
Braemuir. Her home. How she longed to see it again. To feel the comfort of knowing she was safe within its walls. She only had to close her eyes to see every inch of it. The grand staircase with the honours of her family going back for centuries. Her room at the back of the house overlooking the park and the hills beyond. The people in their little crofts. The gypsies who had come every year to help with the hay. And she had promised her father to do everything in her power to care for it the way he would have, had he lived.
Only she couldn’t. Not without a husband. Carrick insisted she wed before he would give up his trusteeship. Females did not manage their own estates. Worse yet, there were debts incurred by her father to be paid. And no money to pay them. Leasing the estate these many years had not been enough to pay them off.
She handed the comb to the insistent Mary and stared unseeing at her reflection. Surely it wouldn’t be too difficult to find a husband. She was no beauty, she knew that, but it wasn’t a one-sided bargain. In exchange for paying off the debts, her bridegroom would gain the title of Baron Aleyne, which by ancient charter passed through either the male or the female line. Not to mention the ancient house and surrounding lands.
A fine house for children to grow up in.
She had promised her father she would not let the family name die. Yet here she was, two years beyond her age of majority and still unwed. Not that she regretted these past two years caring for her father’s widowed sister during her illness. The woman had been the mother she had never known. She had taught her how to be the lady of a house instead of a hoyden who liked to ride and fish and all of the other things she’d learned from her father. Jenna had managed Mrs Blackstone’s house almost entirely alone these past few years and it galled her to be treated by Carrick as if she did not have a brain in her head.
‘It is Mr Gilvry you are meaning?’ Mary asked, pinning a stray lock of hair in place. ‘A handsome young man by all accounts.’
Ruggedly attractive and traitorous. The feeling of betrayal writhed in her stomach anew. ‘He’s only out for himself.’
‘Is that right, then? You know so much about him already?’
She knew more than she ought. The velvet feel of his lips on hers. The hard strength of his body inside his clothes. A tremor ran through her. She pushed the sensations away.
‘He is not worth discussing, though I am sure the lasses below stairs will find him charming enough.’ Oh, my word, didn’t she sound spiteful? Most unlike herself. She took a deep breath. ‘That looks lovely, Mary. Thank you.’
The maid smiled. She picked up the dress from the end of the bed. ‘May I put this on you, now? We should probably hurry, or you will be late.’
Lord Carrick hated tardiness and ruled his castle with a rod of iron.
The dress slipped over her head with a whisper of silk. The silver thread in the lace edge of the sleeves scratched up the length of her arms. Why was she doing this? Why had she asked Mary to put out her best evening gown instead of one of those she would normally wear for dinner en famille? Not for Mr high-and-mighty-you-shouldn’t-be-riding-out-without-a-groom Gilvry, that was certain. Tonight her mission was to remind her cousin of his promise to take her to Edinburgh. She really could not afford another Season to pass her by.
Not after receiving a plea six months ago from Mr Hughes, the vicar at Braemuir. He had begged her to return home and take up her duties, before there was no one left on the land.
When she had told Carrick about Mr Hughes’s concerns, he’d been insulted by her lack of trust in his administration. Times were changing, he’d told her. He’d also forbidden any further communication with the old vicar. However, when she pressed the issue, he had grudgingly agreed it was high time she found a husband to look after her affairs. Six months had passed and she seemed no closer to the married state.
She pressed her lips together and smoothed her gloves up her arms. She was determined to wait no longer. Especially in the light of what she assumed was another message from Mr Hughes waiting unread with the tinker in the market because of those wretched footpads.
If Mr Hughes’s pleas had been urgent before, she could only imagine what they would be six months later.
Despite the urge to move, to pace, she remained still as Mary pinned her brooch on her gown—the pearls and diamonds her father had given her mother on their wedding day, with the family motto inscribed in the silver surround: Family Before All. Family meant the people on her estate. People she hadn’t seen for years. It was a promise instilled into her from birth. A promise she had so far failed to keep.
Mary handed her a shawl. ‘Will there be anything else, my lady?’
Jenna gazed at herself in the glass. Was she ready? Was she suitably armed for battle with her cousin and the traitorous Mr Gilvry? ‘Quite ready.’
Two flights down and a draughty corridor brought her to the second-floor drawing room, in the suite of rooms set aside for the lord of the castle and his retinue. Such old-fashioned formality. Outside the great wooden door studded with iron, she squared her shoulders, pinned a smile to her