The Lady and the Laird Page 7

  "His lordship will see you," she said grudgingly, "but I'll thank you to leave that cloak here, and your shoes, as well. We don't need any more mess above stairs than we can avoid."

  Katlin would have argued but she knew the woman was right. In the past few days, she had scrubbed her share of floors for the first time in her life and had a new appreciation of how hard it was to keep any place clean. Besides, the cloak was soaked with rain and weighed so much that her shoulders threatened to bow under it.

  She removed it and laid it over the back of a chair. Her boots were more difficult and certainly no one offered to help her with them, but she; finally did manage to get them off. Rising, she smoothed her hair as best she could.

  "I am ready."

  The housekeeper gave her a look that made it clear she thought her anything but. With an audible sniff, she led the way upstairs.

  In her twenty years, Katlin had been in many noble residences. Lady Margaret's own house in London where she had grown up was smaller than some but still considered a gem of architecture and interior decoration. More recently, she had visited Charles at his town residence and his country seat—all properly chaperoned, of course.

  While Devereux was merely a baron, he was a very rich one, and his style of living would have done a duke proud. Katlin had taken all that in stride, for at bottom she was never overly impressed by appearances. But Wyndham Manor was a different matter altogether.

  It was... She stopped in mid-thought, at a loss for words. How to describe the soaring, gilt-encrusted ceilings on which gods and goddesses romped, the baroque walls hung with some of the finest oil paintings she had ever seen, the rare sculptures and bronzes, the fine Grecian urns, the immense Persian carpets laid over intricate mosaic floors? How, indeed, to absorb the overwhelming sense of wealth, power and rarest of all, taste that so far removed Wyndham Manor from the primitiveness of Innishffarin as to make it incomprehensible how both could ever have belonged to the same family.

  How indeed?

  "This way," the housekeeper said, making no attempt to hide her impatience. She was convinced this roughly dressed, bedraggled creature was in for a rude awakening the moment Lord Angus set eyes on her. Everyone knew him for a scrupulously fair man, but he would not stand to be lied to. Had she come merely asking for charity, as she should have, she would not have been turned away. But the effrontery, the unmitigated nerve to pretend that she was Miss Katlin Sinclair of Innishffarin. The sooner his lordship dealt with her, the better.

  The housekeeper opened an inlaid door to one side of the great hall and stepped back. "In here."

  Katlin took firm hold of her courage and stepped forward, only to stop abruptly as she found herself in a room of such overwhelming masculinity and luxury that there could be no doubt as to whom it belonged.

  Ostensibly, the room was a library and perhaps also an office. It was furnished with floor-to-ceiling bookcases that held hundreds of leather-bound volumes. In the center of the room was a large marquetry desk, a wing chair set behind it. Nearby, facing the enormous fireplace, was a pair of leather couches. The walls were festooned with prints of hunting scenes, sailing vessels and what appeared to be very old maps. A faint odor of tobacco that was not at all unpleasant lingered on the air. A cheerful fire blazed, dispelling the gloom of the day.

  In such welcome surroundings, so different from what she had known of late, Katlin might have been pardoned for relaxing. Only the sight of the man standing beside the fireplace stopped her.

  Angus, Lord Wyndham, looked much as he had done when she last saw him. He was casually dressed in a white shirt open at the neck, black breeches and boots that looked as though they had long despaired of a valet's care. In deference to the chill weather, he wore a plain wool frock coat. His hair was still unruly but he appeared to have shaved that morning. The hard, unrelenting line of his jaw could be clearly seen.

  She had the satisfaction of taking him by surprise. Although Angus had been told who his visitor claimed to be, he hadn't quite credited it. At least not until he turned from his perusal of the fire to see Katlin standing before him. A decidedly bedraggled Katlin to be sure, but Katlin all the same.

  "Miss Sinclair," he said gravely. "How kind of you to call on such an inclement day."

  The housekeeper gasped. "Oh, sir, you mean it really is her?"

  Angus smiled. "I'm afraid so, Mrs. Jarvis. Do see about some tea, won't you?"

  "Yes, sir, of course, sir... Oh, miss, it's sorry I am. I truly had no idea... That is, you simply don't look like..."

  "That's all right, Mrs. Jarvis," Angus said, cutting her off before she could dig herself in any more deeply. "The tea, if you wouldn't mind."

  Seizing the opportunity, the housekeeper hurried away. Katlin was left alone with her host. She was very weary, to be sure, but that did not prevent the surge of temper she felt, face-to-face with his obvious amusement.

  "It really is too kind of you to receive me, my lord," she said dryly, no mean feat considering that she was anything but. "I do hope I'm not inconveniencing you."

  "Not at all," Angus assured her blandly. He was enjoying himself, but under that was some concern about her sudden arrival. It was highly unlikely that she had come on a social call. Not impossible, to be sure, for he really had no idea what foolishness she was capable of. Still, her appearance concerned him. The longer he looked at her, the more he became aware of how very pale she was.

  "Sit down," he said gruffly and pushed one of the high-backed chairs toward her.

  Katlin was about to do so when she remembered her state. Gesturing to her mud-splattered skirt, she said, "I'd better not."

  "Don't be an idiot," Angus said. Cordiality deserted him. Without another word, he lifted her bodily off the floor, ignoring her startled gasp and set her firmly down in the chair.

  "Forget the tea," he said. "Port's the ticket."

  Katlin did not demure. Instead, she let herself sink back against the soft cushions and for just a moment closed her eyes. It was good to be inside, warm and dry, with someone else looking after things. She was so very tired. If she just rested for a moment or two, she would be much better—

  "Katlin?"

  The voice was low and gentle, tinged with concern. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. "What is it?"

  Angus was bending over very close to her. She blinked when she saw exactly how close. She could smell the faint scent of tobacco she had noticed before, mingling with the scents of clean linen, wool and soap. Her senses whirled. For a frightening instant, it was all she could do not to reach out to him.

  Hastily, she said, "There is nothing to be alarmed about. I am quite well."

  "You fell asleep," Angus said quietly. His matter-of-fact words masked his growing concern. He had turned away only long enough to pour the port. When he turned back, she was fast asleep, her head tilted to one side as trustingly as a child. She looked so tired, so helpless, yet so damned beautiful. He swallowed against the tightness in his throat.

  "Drink your port," he said, his voice gruff. What in God's name had happened to exhaust her so? And why had she come in such a condition to his door?

  As she sipped the amber liquid, he took a chair and pulled it nearer so that he could keep a close eye on her. Their knees were almost touching as he asked, "How are things at Innishffarin?"

  Katlin took another swallow of the port and coughed. She was unused to spirits, but under the circumstances a good stiff drink seemed sensible. Not too much of one, though, she was not so foolish as that. Above all, she had to keep her wits about her when dealing with Angus Wyndham. He was, after all, her adversary.

  "Not good," she admitted faintly. "Seamus is off seeing to the flock."

  Angus nodded. "That's wise."

  "John had an accident two days ago. He hurt his ankle and can't get about too well."

  "I see... Then you need a manservant to help with the heavier work. That's understandable. I'll send someone back with you."

  "Wait,
" Katlin said. She had to get it all out while she still had the strength. "Maggie Fergus is ill, so are Margaret and Mary. They've all got a cough of some kind that doesn't seem to be improving. Maggie says there's also illness in the village."

  "That's true," Angus said slowly. "What about your maid, is she ill as well?"

  "She came very close to having a terrible accident today, all because she was so tired and trying to do so much. That's why I came. I want to manage for myself, indeed, I'm determined to do so. But: I can't risk the people in my care. Maggie and the others may be truly sick without my realizing. And Sarah... Sarah could have been killed and all because I brought her here. I thought I was being kind but she wouldn't have died back in London and she could have here."

  She broke off, took a deep breath and said, "It's my responsibility, you see. No matter how I feel about you and, well, about asking for help, I can't let the others suffer."

  She fell silent, dismayed by how much she had said. Where had all that come from? She had meant only to tell him very briefly what conditions were like and ask, however hard it was, for assistance. Instead, it seemed as though she had poured out her heart.

  Angus looked at her thoughtfully. Here was yet another dimension to the surprising Katlin Sinclair. She genuinely cared for the well-being of her servants, enough to take herself out in a storm to get help for them.

  "Very well," he said quietly, "I will send everything that is needed."

  She almost sagged with relief, making him feel a cur as he added, "We can discuss payment later."

  "Payment?" Katlin gasped. In her rush to get to him, she had never thought of that, but of course, he was right. They were his servants, after all. "Yes, I see... Naturally, I expect to pay, it's only that..."

  "What?" Angus said casually as though it was a matter of no great importance. In fact, he felt anything but. He was pushing her very hard and he knew it, but he was determined to find out exactly what this surprising bit of London social fluff really had inside her.

  Katlin cleared her throat. She felt mortified but there was no getting around it, she had to be honest with him.

  "The truth is my grandfather did not leave much beyond Innishffarin itself. Naturally, I have resources in London—" if she could persuade Lady Margaret to release them "'—but they aren't instantly available to me. I'll pay anything I can, that goes without saying, but unfortunately my immediate resources aren't what I would like them to be."

  Angus reached behind him for a small silver box. From it he took a cheroot. Bending close to the fire, he extracted a glowing taper, which he put to the tip of the tobacco. When it lit, he tossed the taper away and glanced at the smoke thoughtfully.

  "You should know, Miss Sinclair, that here in Scotland we often do business without recourse to cash. Barter is perfectly well accepted."

  "I see," she said slowly, although in fact she did not. Unless he thought she would...

  "We would not be speaking of Innishffarin, would we?" she asked.

  It was most remarkable, Angus thought, to see her eyes flash. Ordinarily, he found brown eyes soft and yielding but Katlin's were anything but. They appeared shot through by deep veins of gold where hidden depths lurked.

  "What if we were?" he asked.

  "I should think you the most venal of men, trying to bargain the well-being and safety of others for a mere piece of property."

  "Hardly mere," Angus said. He rose and walked over to the high windows where he stood, gazing out at the storm. It seemed to have worsened in the last few minutes. As was his usual practice, he made a swift decision. Katlin was not returning to Innishffarin until the storm was over. She would stay, safe under his roof, until he could be sure she would be safe under her own.

  Revealing nothing of his thoughts, he turned to her. "Innishffarin is the heart and soul of the Wyndhams," he said. "We would go to almost any lengths to recover it."

  At her look of alarm, he added, "But if I had been willing to stoop to what you are suggesting, your grandfather would not have lived so long and relatively comfortable a life."

  He raised a hand, stopping her instinctive denial that she had been thinking any such thing. "No, Miss Sinclair, I will not hold the welfare of your servants hostage for Innishffarin. I merely ask that you make an effort to stop seeing me as an enemy and instead see me as what I truly am, your neighbor and possibly your ally."

  A wave of color washed over her cheeks. He spoke so sincerely, how could she doubt that he meant what he said? And how despicable of her to have thought otherwise. Truly, this Scottish sojourn was bringing out hitherto unsuspected aspects of her character, not all of them desirable.

  "I am sorry," she said. "Your offer is most generous. Of course, I will do my best to see you as you ask."

  Angus leveled a long look at her. What he saw satisfied him. "Good," he said as he rose and held out a hand to her. "Let's get to it, then. You tell Mrs. Jarvis what's needed while I arrange for transport. Is the castle still leaking buckets?"

  Katlin's flush deepened. "I'm afraid so."

  "There's not much to be done while the rain continues but perhaps my men can put a bit of mortar once we've a dry spell. That will help temporarily."

  He had not intended to make such an offer and was surprised to have done so. Repairs to Innishffarin were supposed to wait until the castle was once more his own. Not that mortaring up the worst of the leaks would make much difference. It had been tried in the past and only helped for a short time. A few months, for instance.

  Long enough for Miss Katlin Sinclair to fulfill the terms of her grandfather's will and achieve permanent ownership of Innishffarin.

  Angus shook his head at his own folly. His hand was on the library door. He was about to open it when he became aware of Katlin standing just behind him, her body suddenly rigid with shock.

  "What-"

  Her arm lifted, pointing directly at the portrait near the door. In a whisper, she asked, "Who is that?"

  Angus frowned. He had no idea why she should react that way. A glance at the painting showed nothing out of the ordinary. It looked just as it always had.

  "My ancestor," he said, "Francis Lord Wyndham."

  Katlin lowered her arm but she remained pale, her eyes dark pools of unreadable thought. "What is that behind him?"

  "Innishffarin," Angus replied. "Francis was the last Wyndham to hold the castle. It was taken by the king during his lifetime and given to your family."

  "Did he fight for it?" she asked faintly.

  Angus hesitated. This was a source of much bitter controversy among the Wyndhams, even down to the present day. Slowly, he said, "The Scots had already lost a great deal going to war against the English. Francis had fought for Bonnie Prince Charlie and saw where that got everyone. The plain fact of the matter is that he knew he couldn't win and he refused to lead more good men to their deaths. He did the right thing, but it was bitter all the same."

  "Would you have done it?" Katlin asked.

  Angus's eyes darkened. Like every Wyndham male since that terrible time, he had asked himself the same question. "Francis was right not to let his people die," he said, "but he was wrong not to see how the winds of change were blowing. William wasn't a bad choice for king. Francis could have supported him and spared us all a great deal of trouble."

  "He made a political error and your family has paid for it ever since?"

  "Exactly," Angus said, "and he paid a high price himself. He lived twenty years after Innishffarin was taken but I doubt he ever had another peaceful day."

  He broke off his study of the painting and looked at her. "What troubles you about him?"

  "Nothing," Katlin said, too quickly, he thought. He was sure that she wasn't telling him the truth, but sure, too, that he would get nothing more from her. His little bit of London fluff had far more backbone than he would ever have guessed. She might almost be a Scottish lass for all the spirit she showed.

  That thought amused him. He was smiling as he stood
aside to let her out of the library, but the smile faded when he saw how preoccupied she looked. This notion she had that she could still get along at least in part on her own had to be done away with. She needed him and she would damn well admit it. He would see to that.

  Chapter Seven

  "I am not staying," Katlin declared. She spoke firmly and strove to look the same, never mind her disheveled appearance. Stocking feet planted firmly apart, hands on her hips, she glared at Angus. "It is absolutely impossible for me to remain here."

  He studied her bemusedly, seeing a slender young woman, still thoroughly dirty, dressed far below her station in life, pale with exhaustion, yet unmistakably determined. She really did mean to leave.

  "I am sending all necessary help to Innishffarin," he said reasonably, "and I will go there myself to make sure everything is in hand. But you need to rest or you will become ill. It is only sensible for you to stay here."

  "It is anything but," Katlin insisted. "Innishffarin is my responsibility. I am going."

  The pair stood in the center of the great hall, beneath the mural of cavorting gods and goddesses. They were heedless of the startled looks from the servants, who could not help overhearing their exchange.

  Mrs. Jarvis was shaking her head in amazement. She had never heard anyone address his lordship in such a way. Beside her, the steward, William, inhaled sharply. "Got a bit of steel in her backbone, that one," he said.

  "Got a bit of nerve," Mrs. Jarvis corrected. "Who does she think she is, arguing with the laird?"

  "She thinks she's mistress of Innishffarin," William replied. His eyes widened at the thought. "And she just might be right.''

  Mrs. Jarvis looked down the side of her nose. "Nonsense. Why do you think his lordship is going to such lengths to help her?" Without waiting for a reply, she answered her own question. "Because Innishffarin is his and he knows it. He can't risk her destroying the place before he can take over."