Читать книгу Sinful Scottish Laird - Julia London, Julia London - Страница 10

CHAPTER FOUR

July 28—One of the chimneys must be rebuilt, which Uncle assures me that he and Mr. Green will know how to do, but I don’t care for him to be on the roof. He has ignored me thus far and urges me to keep my thoughts to what must be done inside. My thoughts will be much crowded, then, for there are many repairs to be done. Every day we discover something new, which sends Belinda into fits of panic. I have assured her that we will manage, but I confess I spoke with far more conviction than I felt. Ellis is fearful of the deep shadows in the lodge, which cannot be avoided due to the lack of proper windows. But he is happy that he can see the night’s sky so clearly from his room and is busily charting the stars under Mr. Tuttle’s tutelage. The poor boy sneezes quite a lot, and Belinda fears the dust will make him ill. She is quite concerned there is no real village to purchase sundries and frets that she didn’t bring with her enough paints for her artwork, which she is very keen to begin when the repairs have all been made.

I know that Belinda and Ellis are not happy with the lodge, and I do so hate that I was clearly wrong to bring them to such a disagreeable place.

The Scotsman came in defense of Mr. MacNally. He does not care for me, I think it quite obvious, for he does not smile at all and did not find me the least bit humorous. His face is a lovely shade of brown, as if he has been often in the sun. It rather makes the blue of his eyes that much brighter and the plum of his lips that much darker.

I rather like it here in a strange way. It is quiet, and the landscape unmarred. I should think that it would be a lovely place to live, if one could live without society.

IT WAS TRUE that Daisy felt quite badly for having dragged her household here. She’d known the lodge was remote and had been uninhabited for a time—but she’d not been prepared for just how remote and how uninhabited. Because she hadn’t given the matter proper attention when her husband’s agent tried to explain it to her.

The truth about Auchenard was buried in the papers that he’d wanted to review with her shortly after Clive’s death. At the time, Daisy had found the discussion of a remote hunting lodge so dreadfully tedious that she could scarcely keep her eyes open. She’d been exhausted from the details of Clive’s funeral, and Scotland had seemed as far removed from her as the moon. Moreover, the estate had existed for the purpose of hunting—an activity that held no interest for her whatsoever. She had not paid the matter any heed.

Not until she had needed someplace to which to escape.

And now? More than once Daisy had considered putting her son back in the coach and returning to England, no matter how exhausted they all were.

On their first tour of the lodge, she’d been appalled by what they’d found in the lodge—a dim interior, deteriorating furnishings. And the decor! Turkeys and stag heads seemed to lurk around every corner.

“Well, then,” she’d said when they’d seen it all. “There is nothing to be done now but begin work.” She’d said it confidently, as if her occupation was that of a woman who routinely walked into deteriorating hunting lodges and rejuvenated them. “We will muster our little army and work, shall we?”

“Assuming none of us is made ill,” Belinda had said darkly from beneath the lace handkerchief she kept pressed to her nose and face.

In that moment, the prospect of defeat before Belinda was enough to spur Daisy into turning this lodge into a highland jewel.

In the days that followed, Daisy worked as hard as anyone to restore the lodge. She and her household polished and scrubbed, tore down old wall hangings, washed windows and sashes, and carted out unsuitable furnishings. Carpets were dragged outside and beaten, mattresses turned, linens placed on beds. Sir Nevis, who meant to return to England after a week, scouted the area while they worked, and returned with a craftsman to repair the windows. He also returned with information about Balhaire, the large Mackenzie estate and small village where sundries—and, thankfully, paints—could be purchased.

But as the days progressed, Ellis looked more and more disheartened. He and his tutor wandered about looking a bit lost. Ellis was curious to inspect their surroundings, but Daisy would not allow them to venture far from the lodge...the Scotsman’s warnings of others had made her a bit fearful.

She tried to engage Ellis with the lodge itself, but the boy, like any nine-year-old, did not want to beat carpets. So Daisy urged him to continue his star charting. That occupied him until they had charted all that they could. She then commanded him to help her clean windows, but he tired easily.

When Daisy wasn’t struggling to please her son, she toiled from morning to sundown in a manner she’d never experienced in her life.

At first Rowley, Uncle Alfonso and Belinda had tried to dissuade her from it. Great ladies did not beat carpets, they said. Great ladies did not scrub floors. But Daisy ignored their protests—she found the work oddly soothing. There were too many thoughts that plagued her when she was left idle, such as whom she’d be forced to marry, and how the days of her freedom were relentlessly ticking away. Whether or not Rob would reach her in time, what was wrong with her son that he was so fragile, and how cake-headed she’d been to think a journey to the northern part of Scotland could possibly be a good idea, and, of course, what a terrible thing she’d done, dragging her family here.

Yes, she preferred the labor to her thoughts. At the end of each day, she ached with the physical exertion, but the ache was not unpleasant.

But there were times, when she couldn’t keep her thoughts from her head, that Daisy felt a gnawing anger with her late husband. Clive had forced her into this untenable situation, and her feelings about it had not changed with time. She felt betrayed by the man she had respected and revered and tried to love. She’d been a dutiful wife—how could he have had so little regard for her? How could he believe she would jeopardize her own son’s future for her own pleasure?

Sadly, the answers to these questions were buried with Clive.

By the end of their first fortnight at Auchenard, Daisy could see that the old lodge was beginning to emerge, and she was proud of the work they’d done. She began to notice less the repairs that had yet to be made and more of the vistas that surrounded the lodge. It was possible to gaze out at the lake and the hills beyond and forget her worries.

When she was satisfied with the work on the interior, Daisy turned her attention to the garden. Or what she assumed had been a garden at some point. Whatever it might have been, it was overgrown. Vines as thick as her arm crawled up walls and a fountain, and weeds had invaded what surely once had been a manicured lawn. She’d donned a leather apron and old straw hat she’d found in the stables. She’d cut vines and pulled weeds until her hands were rough. She crawled into bed at the end of those days and slept like the dead.

Belinda complained that the sun was freckling her skin and turning her color. Daisy didn’t care.

Each morning she rose with the dawn light, pulled a shawl around her shoulders and sat at the bank of windows that overlooked the lake from the master bedchamber. She’d open them to the cool morning mist, withdraw her diary from a drawer in the desk and make note of the previous day.

She pressed flowers into the book, as well as the leaves of a tree she’d never seen before, and had sketched the tree beside it. She’d drawn pictures of boats sliding by on the lake, of a red stag she saw one morning standing just beyond the walls, staring at the lodge.

Yesterday, Daisy had uncovered an arch in the stone wall that bordered the garden. She dipped her quill into the inkwell to record it—but a movement outside her window caught her eye.

The mist was settling in over the top of the garden, yet she could plainly see a dog sniffing about in a space she’d cleared. Not just any dog, either—it was enormous, at least twice as tall as any dog she’d ever seen, with wiry, coarse fur. She wondered if it was wild. She stood up, pulled her Kashmir shawl tightly around her and leaned across the desk to have a better look. “Where did you come from?” she murmured.

The dog put its snout to the ground and inched toward the one rosebush she’d managed to save.

Daisy hurried out of her room, down the stairs and the wide corridor that led to the great room and outside.

When she reached the garden, she slowed, tiptoeing through the gate, her bare feet on cool, wet earth that slipped in between her toes.

The dog’s head snapped up as Daisy moved deeper into the garden. It lifted its snout in the air, nostrils working to catch her scent. Daisy froze. The dog didn’t seem afraid of her, only curious.

She took another step, and the dog crouched down, as if it meant to flee. “Don’t go,” she whispered, slowly squatting down and holding out her hand. “Come.”

The dog stood alert, its tail high, watching her warily.

She looked around for something to entice it. There was nothing but a battered rose, and she reached for it, breaking it off at the stem and wincing when a thorn pierced her thumb. She crushed the petals in her hand and held them out. “Come,” she said again.

This time the dog slunk forward, its nose working, every muscle taut. It kept slinking forward until it could touch Daisy, its nose to her hand. A bitch, Daisy noticed. She uncurled her fingers and revealed the crushed petals in her palm.

The bitch sniffed at the flowers, licked them, and then allowed Daisy to scratch behind her ears. But when she’d inspected the petals and found them wanting, she touched her snout to Daisy’s arm, then loped away, disappearing through a patch in the hedge...through what Daisy had believed was a stone wall until this very moment.

She followed the dog’s path, pushing back against the overgrowth of vegetation, and discovered a crumbling crack in the wall. The stones had fallen away, leaving a gap of about a foot. She stepped over the pile of stones, pushed away the leggy and tangled vines of the clematis and squeezed through the opening, popping out the other side into a meadow.

She steadied herself and looked around. She caught sight of the dog loping lazily away...toward a man on an enormous horse. Daisy’s heart leaped with fear when she saw him, and in her head all of Belinda’s warnings about dangerous Scotsmen began to sound. She unthinkingly took a step backward, bumping into the wall. Just as she meant to squeeze through the hole and flee to the lodge, she realized that the man was familiar.

He suddenly reined his horse about and started toward her, the long strides of his mount eating up the ground with ease.

Perhaps she would prove all of Belinda’s fears true in the next few moments, but Daisy didn’t flee; she pulled her shawl more tightly around her as the man slowed his horse and pulled to a sharp halt before her. His horse jumped around a bit, wanting to carry on. Daisy’s heart raced with fear that she would be trampled by the horse, until she realized that the man kept a steady hand on the beast, and the horse would come no nearer to her. She looked up at the rider, her heart pounding.

The Scotsman’s gaze was locked on her, and Daisy’s heart began to flutter so badly that she could not recall his name. Oh dear, what was it? Avondale?

His inspection slowly moved over her, studying her, his expression one of mild surprise. That was the moment Daisy remembered that she was wearing bedclothes, and her hair, uncombed, was draped over her shoulders. She felt the heat of self-consciousness rise up in her cheeks.

“Madainn mhath.”

He towered above her in sinewy masculinity, and Daisy’s mind emptied of all rational thought other than how much she wanted to touch him. “Good morning, Lord Avondale.”

He shifted in his saddle. “Arrandale.”

Ah, yes. That was it. She winced apologetically and thought the better of explaining that her heart was pounding so hard in her chest that she couldn’t think of his name. “I beg your pardon,” she said and curtsied. “My lord Arrandale.” She rose up, drew her breath and released her hard grip on the shawl. It would not do to seem timid in the presence of a man like him.

God in heaven, he was even more dazzling than she’d recalled. He wore the plaid today, and his bare knees and a bit of his powerful thigh were exposed to her. She imagined touching that thigh, and how hard it would feel...and a salacious little shiver ran down her spine.

He was frowning at her, as if he knew what she was thinking.

“I saw your dog,” she blurted, trying to explain herself, and nodded in the canine’s direction. “She was in my garden.”

Arrandale glanced briefly at the dog, who had come loping back to them, her nose to the ground. But his gaze quickly moved over Daisy again. He looked at her as if he’d never seen a woman in her bedclothes and bare feet. He cocked his head. “Has something happened, then? Has the lodge burned? Have you been raided?”

Had something happened? Her heart had been invigorated and hammered in her chest—that was all. “No.”

“No?” He lifted his gaze to her eyes. “It’s no’ often one sees the lady of the house standing in a meadow in her bedclothes, aye?” He arched a brow as if he expected her to disagree.

“You think I’m a bit mad.”

“No’ a bit. Completely. And a wee bit daft, as you might recall.”

He said it so calmly, his manner so matter-of-fact, that Daisy laughed with surprise. “Do you find my appearance so scandalous?” she asked, her smile deepening as she brazenly opened her shawl to reveal her nightgown.

His horse jerked at the tight hold Arrandale had on him, and he adjusted his grip, giving the horse a bit more of his head but still holding him back. “You want me to find it scandalous, aye?”

She laughed with incredulity, the way a girl laughs when she finds a boy attractive. The gentlemen she sparred with in London never seemed to understand her motives, but she rather thought this Scotsman understood her motives very well.

“You enjoy trifling with gentlemen,” he remarked, as if to agree with her thoughts.

“Trifling! I am not trifling with you, my lord—I chased your dog out of my garden.”

A corner of his mouth tipped up in a vaguely droll smile. “Ah yes, the garden,” he said. “No need to deny it. I’m no’ offended.”

Daisy’s laughter was inexplicable, but it was spilling uncontrollably out of her now. “You are a very disagreeable man, sir,” she said cheerfully.

“Me?”

“You’re certainly the first gentleman to complain of flirting. But do you honestly believe that I rushed out here into the meadow just after dawn on the slim hope that you might be riding by? Do you think I came out in here in my bedclothes merely to trifle with you?”

He leaned over the neck of his horse and looked her directly in the eye. “I donna think you came out here with that intention. But I think you leave no opportunity for it untouched.”

He might have hoped to offend her with that remark, but it really only spurred her to trifle with him more. “Indeed? And what precisely do you see that leads you to such an outrageous conclusion?”

“The color in your cheeks,” he said, gesturing to her face. “The light in your eye.”

“Perhaps the color in my cheek comes from the sun. And the light in my eye is a result of the mist lifting.”

“Aye, and perhaps you leave your shoulder bare because the air is warm,” he suggested.

Daisy looked down. She hadn’t realized her nightgown had slid off her shoulder. She very slowly and deliberately pulled it up. “That was inadvertent.”

Arrandale snorted. “Donna mistake me for naive,” he said, as if speaking to a child. “I am well acquainted with women, aye?”

Goodness, but he seemed quite proud of that. “Ah, you are acquainted with women,” she repeated as if this were a revelation to her. “You grace me with your superior knowledge of them,” she said and curtsied daintily, holding out one corner of her nightgown as she dipped, aware that he was probably being treated to a view of the swell of her breasts. Frankly, the thought of it gave her a thrill. She was so unlike herself! She’d never flaunted her figure like this. As she rose up, she liked that his blue eyes had turned a bit stormy, as if something was brewing in him. “But as you know women, so do I know men. You said I would never see you again, and yet here you are. I know that when a man appears in a meadow beside a lady’s abode, riding about when he clearly has no destination in mind, he means to encounter her one way or the other.” She smiled pertly.

Arrandale’s smile was so slow and so wolfish that she felt it trickle down to her toes. “You speak like a man.”

“Why should it be only the provenance of men to speak directly? Must women speak only when addressed, and never flirt, and only agree with everything you say?”

He arched a brow. “How cynical of you, Lady Chatwick. I didna say I disapproved of it, did I? As it happens, I donna care for the demure wee English flowers. I prefer women who lust for life. Nonetheless... I have no interest in engaging you in a flirtation.”

Daisy’s eyes widened with surprise. No one had ever said such a thing to her, especially not since Clive died. “I beg your pardon,” she said flatly, suddenly annoyed with his lack of decorum and his dismissal.

Arrandale’s smile deepened at her irritation. “I suspect it comes as a great shock that you are no’ roundly esteemed by all members of the male sex. But you are no’.” He tipped his hat to her. “Latha math, Lady Chatwick. I’ll leave you to return to your rooms to dress.” He reined his horse about and, with a whistle for his dog, galloped away.

Daisy stared at his departing back as he and his massive horse and massive dog bounded across the meadow.

There went a man who wasn’t afraid to offend her. Who refused to flatter her. Who did not feign infatuation so that might lust after her purse. And as annoyed as she was with him at the moment for rebuffing her, Daisy couldn’t help but admire him a very tiny bit.

Damn Scotsman.

She returned to her rooms and resumed her seat at the window, where she recorded her encounter with Lord Arrandale in her diary, biting back a smile as she recalled what he’d said: I suspect it comes as a great shock...

He was right. It did.

She pressed one of the rose petals she’d held out to his dog into her diary.