A Stroke of Luck (6 page)

The wiry little collie bared its teeth and snapped.

"Supposin' I have
my
banker go and chat with
your
banker," he continued with undisguised sarcasm. "And who shall he say sent 'im? The bloody Prince 'o Wales?"

"The Duke of Prestwick," replied Prestwick with as much dignity as he could muster. Considering the fact that he was under the scrutiny of at least four hostile sets of eyes, it was no easy feat.

"Auch, a bloody duke is it?" The man's eyes narrowed so that they nearly disappeared in the leathery lines of his face. After lingering a moment longer on Prestwick's less than ducal appearance, they shifted to Zara. "And I suppose you'll be telling me that you're his Duchess?"

An expression of horror spasmed across her face. "Good Heavens, no! I never met the man before last night, when my brothers and I found him and his companion bobbing like corks in the sea." Tucking a lock of her wheaten hair behind her ear, she essayed a wan smile. "I am just a plain country miss who is trying to shepherd my brothers to the safety of our home in England. However, our boat was blown off course by the storm and we foundered on the rocks."

The Scot's face softened, but only for an instant, as he tugged at his beard. "Well, mebbe we can do a bit 'o bartering on a fare, lassie." The crook of a gnarled finger beckoned her to step closer.

"But Stump," protested Prestwick, "Tell him that I really am—"

Cutting him off with a daggered look, Zara gestured for the duke and the others to fall back, then complied with the grizzled Scotsman's request.

Heads bent together, the young lady and the man fell into a heated negotiation. Helped along by much shrugging, sighing and a goodly amount of repetition, an agreement was finally reached and sealed with a shake of hands.

"Get in," she called, hurrying around to the back of the cart.

Nonny and Perry were quick to join her in climbing up atop the pile of barley, but the duke hung back, unsure of whether the invitation included him and his valet.

Or of whether he wished to be part of any endeavor that involved the maddening Greeleys.

Any doubts were quickly cleared away by another impatient shout.

"I said,
get in
!"

He looked up to see Zara glowering at him. With her hair sparking with red highlights in the morning sun and her hand perilously close to the pitchfork in the sideboards, she looked even more like the Admiral of the Amazons than ever, despite the loss of her ship.

His lips tugged into a wry purse. Somehow, he did not think she would hesitate to skewer him on the spot if he attempted to mutiny.

"Don't think you are going to tiptoe off and leave us in the lurch," added Zara. "There is work to be done, and whether you are a duke, a despot or a demoiselle in disguise, you are damn well going to pitch in and do your fair share."

* * *

"Bruichladdich." Zara shaded her eyes and indicated the cloud of peaty smoke that hung over the inlet of Loch Indaal.

"Is something stuck in your throat?"

Her brothers had craned their necks to pick out the low, whitewashed stone building, but the duke—or whoever he was—made no move, save to voice the mocking quip.

She chose to ignore him.

"There looks to be an odd sort of copper chimney," remarked Nonny with some enthusiasm. Interested in all manner of mechanical things, he strained to see more. "We haven't seen anything like that in our travels. I shall have to make a sketch of it in my notebook. What is it for?"

"Mr. McTavish makes
uisge beatha
."

"Ah, well that certainly explains why we have been bouncing along on this rutted cart patch for the last half hour," growled Prestwick. "I assume you are—"

"It is also called
uishgi
in Gaelic," she continued. "And whisky in English."

Stump shifted against the planking and grinned. "In any language, it warms the cockles and curls the toes."

At the mention of toes, she saw the duke wince and rub at his foot. "Not used to walking very far in those fancy Hessians, are you?" Though it was a tad mean-spirited, she couldn't help adding, "No doubt you simply summon your gilded carriage."

"Actually, it is black, with forest green accents and burgundy wheels," came the acid reply. "Gold would be too vulgar for words."

The cart hit a rock, sending all of them sliding around in the grain. "And I assure you," he snapped irritably, as he began picking barley out of his hair. "It is a good deal more comfortable than this sorry piece of junk."

After another few creaks and jostles, Nonny ventured a tentative question. "Are you really a duke?"

"No—I am actually the Emperor Caligula, ferried back over the River Styx from the netherworld by Charon."

Perry gave him an owlish squint. "You are mixing metaphors, so to speak. Charon and the River Styx appear in Greek mythology, but not that of the Romans. Perhaps you are confusing the two because the Latin poet Virgil mentions the Ferryman in Book VI of
The Aeneid
."

Zara had to repress a chuckle at the sight of the gentleman's face. It was clear he was not used to being corrected, and certainly not by a precocious eleven-old-year with a predilections for the classics.

"And in any case, Caligula was not a very savory character, what with all the orgies and such," finished the lad. "If I were you, I would rather be King Priam, even though he ended up being slain by Pyrrhus during the sack of Troy."

The duke's valet was also looking greatly amused. "If I were you, I would stick with bein' Prestwick, sir. Borin' perhaps, but on the whole, a good deal more comfortable."

The murmured comment earned a glare from the duke. "That is highly debatable."

"This isn't nearly so bad as the wagon ride we had over the Pyrenees," remarked Nonny. "There was only rough planking to sit on, the sun was hot as Hades, and jolting over solid rock for hours on end was enough to make your teeth rattle."

"Is that supposed to make me feel considerably better?" Prestwick asked sourly.

"No, it is supposed to make you feel rather ashamed of yourself and your querulous whining, as two boys can face adversity with more pluck and resilience than a gentleman who has grown up with every advantage in life." Zara saw that her barb had drawn blood, for a flush of red rose to the duke's cheeks.

"You know nothing of my life," he muttered through clenched teeth.

"Indeed I don't, having never had an army of servants at my beck and call, or bankers to hand over money at the snap of my fingers, or—"

The argument was brought to an abrupt halt as the shaggy pony pulled up beside a low stone shed. Turning on his seat, the driver called out a few last minute instructions. "Spades be there, in the shed, lassie. It shouldna take you and thy menfolk more than the rest o' the day te fill the rick, if you all put a bit 'o sweat into your labors." Gathering up the reins, he prepared to move on. "Well, best be getting down to work. I'll return with some victuals a mite later."

Zara passed their few bundles down to her brothers, then lowered herself gingerly from the planking. Feeling very tired, slightly dispirited and greatly in need of a bath, she would have given the moon and the stars to be able to summon just one of the duke's minions and enjoy a bit of pampering.
Featherbeds, silk gowns, hot chocolate served on a silver tray...

Ha! And pigs might fly up to the heavens!

No storybook prince was going to appear out of nowhere and whisk her away to a life of ease, she thought with an inward sigh. So she had better resign herself to an afternoon of harsh reality. The only slight consolation was that the haughty gentleman—duke or not—was going to be toiling along with them.

"Why are we getting down here?" demanded Prestwick, his ruined boots landing upon the soft earth with a thump.

"You will see in a moment," she replied grimly. Rounding the corner of the thatched building, she found the small storage room and hauled out several spades. "Nonny, you and the duke can begin the cutting, while Perry and I will handle the barrow. Stump, you may take that stick and mark out uniform squares on the ground. We shall change places after a bit."

"What—" began Prestwick.

"Cutting peat to fuel the distillery." She thrust one of the heavy, mud-encrusted tools into his hands.

He was too taken aback to resist.

"As we have no ready blunt for our fare to the mainland, Mr. McTavish has kindly offered to let us work off the price of passage. We are expected to fill the racks in the shed by this evening. In return he will allow us to take shelter in the loft overnight, then ferry us across to Kilberry first thing in the morning." Hitching up her skirts, she turned for the wooden barrow. "So let us not waste any more time in idle conversation."

She thought she heard him mutter several highly unflattering descriptions in conjunction with her name, including "shrew" and "harpy." Well, she didn't care what he thought of her, as long as he could wield a spade as sharply as his tongue.

However, it soon became evident that although the Duke of Prestwick might cut a dashing figure in drawing rooms of London in his finely tailored clothes and fancy footwear, he was woefully inept in handling any sort of farm tool.

"Blast." With a muttered growl, he paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, adding another grimy smudge to the torn sleeve of his shirt.

His coat had already come off after the first thrust or two, its nipped tailoring not cut out for the physical exertions of shoveling. However, between her own bending and lifting, she noted that the improvement in his labors was marginal. His handling of the spade was awkward and clumsy. Nonny, sleeves rolled up over his elbows and whistling a cheerful tune between his teeth, was soon far outpacing the much taller gentleman in slicing out rectangles of the soft sod.

And yet, Zara found her eyes lingered on the duke's toiling form. Whereas at first she had thought his slim build rather effete, she could see now that beneath the finely woven linen, his shoulders and chest were deceptively muscled. Lithe and lean, their whipcord contours chiseled to a narrow waist and strong thighs.

She forced her gaze up from the skintight breeches to the planes of his face. Despite its briny bath, his fair hair fell in softly curling ringlets that many a young lady might envy, giving his fine-boned features an ethereal Renaissance beauty. A velvet doublet, a flourish of decorative lace, and he might have been painted by Botticelli or da Vinci.

However, now that she took another moment to study his profile, she saw he was saved from mere prettiness by cheekbones that were rather too angular and a nose that was just a fraction too long. They added a subtle depth of character she hadn't expected to see.

His lips, too, had a certain intriguing curl of individuality to them. While her first impression had been one of cool arrogance, she saw now they possessed a brooding, sensual quality as well. Indeed, she imagined they were capable of an infinite range of nuanced expression—that is, when they weren't compressed in a razored line of distaste. The brief flash of a smile he had allowed earlier had sent a strange shiver through her. It made her wonder whether beneath the show of petulance there might be a good deal more complexity to him.

Not, of course, that it mattered one way or another to her. There was no denying he was a very attractive gentleman, but her interest was purely artistic. His would be a fascinating countenance to capture on canvas...

His eyes, their swirl of blue and sea green hues darkened by his obvious displeasure, suddenly met with hers.

"Try angling the blade a bit higher," she murmured, trying to cover her embarrassment at being caught staring at him with a curt comment. "That way, your foot won't slip so often."

His expression remained as stony as the chunk of granite he had just kicked away, but after shifting his grip on the handle, he tried to follow her advice.

The sole of his boot slid off to one side with a thud.

"Haven't you ever had to do a lick of work before?" Perry paused in his stacking of the cut peat long enough to regard Prestwick with an incredulous look.

"Don't be a gudgeon. Of course he hasn't," said Nonny. "He's a duke. Dukes don't work."

The youngest Greeley turned from his brother back to Prestwick. "What do dukes do all day?"

"Well, er..."

Zara was fairly certain the cough to clear his throat was a stalling for time.

"That is, my day is occupied by a great many things."

Perry wasn't about to let him off the hook. "Like what?"

"I, er, lunch at my club, I visit my tailor and my bootmaker, along with various other establishments that cater to a gentleman's fashion." Prestwick paused to think. "There are morning calls to pay, the occasional auction at Tattersall's to attend—"

"Useless bugger, ain't he?" McTavish, their rescuer, reappeared from behind the shed with a jug of cider and a basket filled with a simple repast of bread, cheese and slices of cold mutton. He set them on the ground and gave a low snort.

Like the squalling seas, the duke's eyes darkened to a stormy slate. "That's damn unfair and untrue," he said, his voice rumbling with indignation.