Ann Lethbridge (7 page)

He ran down the stairs like the hounds of hell were on his heels. He would gladly have faced the hounds of hell, but the temptation of Lady Jenna was more than he wanted to risk.

And as his boots clattered on the stairs, he remembered where he had heard of Braemuir. It was the Lady Jenna’s holding.

Chapter Five

N
iall had been assigned a chamber in one of the towers beside the gatehouse. Each time he went anywhere near the window, he felt dizzy. He should have insisted on lodgings elsewhere, but that would have required an explanation, so he’d said nothing. It was bad enough being laughed at by his brothers without exposing himself to ridicule here.

Even standing far back from his window, he’d seen the cavalcade winding up the road from the town. Men on horses. Carriages piled to the roof with luggage. Outriders. Like a royal procession. He had hurried to inform Lady Jenna of their imminent arrival.

Now he stood with Lady Jenna on the steps to the entrance, waiting for the guests to come through the gates.

The men were three younger sons of Scottish nobility, all wealthy, and all apparently seeking the advancement of their ambitions by the purchase of a title. Could no one but him see how medieval this was? What sort of men were willing to endure being picked over like apples in a barrel when it was clear Lady Jenna was the real prize?

He froze, surprised by how angry he felt. All right, so he was attracted to the lass. He was a man. Likely half the men in the castle found her alluring. It didn’t mean he cared who she decided to marry. His job was simply to keep her safe until she picked a husband. And if one of these bachelors tried anything untoward, Niall would ensure he’d wear his guts for garters, as Drew had liked to say.

The thought eased his tension until he turned his head to look at the lady in question. She wore a white gown of the finest muslin, like a virgin sacrifice, except the fluttering cherry-coloured ribbons on her straw bonnet and tied in little bows down the front of her gown added teasing touches of temptation. As did her rosy parted lips. Not a sacrifice at all. An eager participant.

This was exactly what she wanted.

Something ugly and dark twisted inside him. He wanted to hit something. To howl a protest. He recognised it for what it was: jealousy. He beat it back with a wry smile. He had no right to be jealous. So what if he had kissed her? Twice now. It was an error of judgement on both their parts. A mistake that would not be repeated.

As if sensing his regard, she glanced his way. It was then that he saw the shadows in the depths of her eyes. The anxiety. The knowledge that if she chose wrongly, the future would be bleak. In the second that their eyes met and locked, he vowed she would not be the only one taking a close look at these men and their worth.

And then they were coming through the gates. Three fine men whose horses pranced into the courtyard, gallant and dashing, proclaiming their status and wealth. The carriages would wait out on the road until the guests were safely inside. The servants in the courtyard sprang into action and Peter’s grooms and stable hands were soon leading the mounts away.

With Mrs Preston at her side, Lady Jenna tripped lightly down the steps to greet the arrivals. Niall stationed himself behind her. The butler, waiting at the bottom of the steps, took each man’s calling card and introduced them to Mrs Preston and Lady Jenna in turn. The men bowed politely.

‘Welcome,’ Lady Jenna said, her voice clear and steady. ‘Welcome to Carrick Castle, gentlemen. Permit me to introduce Mr Niall Gilvry, who stands in Lord Carrick’s place in his absence.’

The oldest man of the three, a Mr McBane, gave him a sharp look and shook Niall’s hand firmly. He was of average height and build, his brown hair already receding, but his brown eyes were mild and intelligent. The other two followed suit. Mr Murray was a fair-haired man in his early twenties with bright blue eyes who no doubt considered himself a Corinthian, judging from his dress and his attempt to crush Niall’s hand. Lastly, Mr Oswald, sandy-haired with sharp, almost foxy features and shirt-points starched to insurmountable points, offered a languid two-fingered touch.

‘Shall we go inside?’ Lady Jenna said. ‘I expect you would care to refresh yourselves after your journey.’

The guests passed the servants standing on each side like soldiers on parade: the secretary, butler, the head groom, maids and footmen. Only McBane nodded an acknowledgement of their presence. He was a good few years older than the other two and a widower by all accounts, and the best of the bunch from Niall’s first impression.

The other two were popinjays, one a sportsman and the other a dandy. But it was wrong to judge a man by appearance alone. Carrick must think any one of them would make a good husband and it was actions, not appearances, that counted.

Niall followed them in. It was his duty to show them to their quarters and give them a brief explanation of the castle layout, so they could find their way to dinner in the dining room later.

A dinner where he would sit in place of her guardian. A role he would not shirk.

* * *

Almost over, dinner had gone perfectly smoothly. Not that Jenna had expected otherwise. The castle staff were a well-oiled machine. Conversation during the meal had allowed her to learn more about the characters of her suitors.

Mr Oswald, seated to her left, was the second son of an earl and a tulip of fashion. She suspected he might even be wearing a corset. Not that he creaked or anything, as she had heard about the Prince Regent, but she sensed an odd stiffness in his spine.

He also lisped very slightly, yet his blue eyes seemed to glimmer with humour at the oddest moments. ‘My dear Lady Jenna,’ he said, putting down his fork, ‘when I learned I was to live in a castle, I must be honest, I had no idea what to expect. I am entirely gratified to discover there are no rushes on the floor, or dogs scrabbling for bones under the table.’

She couldn’t help but laugh at his droll expression. ‘We aim to please.’

‘What are the plans for tomorrow?’ Murray asked.

‘Do you like to shoot, Mr Murray?’ she asked.

‘Rather,’ Murray replied. ‘I never travel without my own shotgun. Ordered it from Manton’s to my exact specifications. I am an excellent shot. Bagged the most birds of anyone last time out.’

An excellent shot or a braggart. Time would prove which.

‘At this time of year we have little to offer in the way of game birds,’ Mr Gilvry said matter-of-factly. ‘But if it is sport you want, there are hares and wood pigeons aplenty.’ He had been silent for most of dinner, watching their guests with a grim intensity as if he would pounce on anyone who stepped out of line.

Jenna had smiled at him once or twice and received only a steady stare in return. Clearly, he was taking his position seriously.

‘And you, Mr McBane?’ she asked the gentleman seated beyond Murray, the oldest of the three gentlemen, a widower with three children according to the latest edition of
Debrett’s Peerage
.

‘I’m not averse to an afternoon with a gun, Lady Jenna,’ he replied, shifting slightly to permit one of the footmen to refill his glass in a polite little gesture that suggested a kindly heart. ‘A little variety in the kitchen is a good thing, I believe. I did not bring my shotgun, however.’

A man with a practical turn of mind, it seemed. ‘Lord Carrick keeps guns for his guests.’

‘I prefer my own,’ Murray said, thrusting his jaw forwards and looking around as if daring anyone to suggest he was wrong.

‘Then we shall definitely have to see if we can provide you with some sport,’ she said soothingly. ‘If the weather remains fine. And once you have recovered from your journey.’

‘I expect I could manage it in a day or so,’ Mr Oswald said, ‘provided we are not required to be in the field before noon.’

‘You cannot be tired, Oswald,’ Mr Murray scoffed. ‘You didn’t set foot from your cabin the whole time we were on board.’

‘I loathe travelling by sea.’

‘I’m a fine sailor,’ Murray said. ‘Never see me keeping below. I was able to put a line in, too. Caught a couple of cod. Had ’em for dinner.’

Did the man think of nothing but sport? Would he care about the land and the people at Braemuir, or only about its game?

‘You gentlemen did not run into any trouble on the road from town?’ Mr Gilvry asked. ‘We’ve had trouble with footpads in the area.’

‘Never saw a one,’ Mr Murray said. ‘Would have dealt with them soundly if I had.’

Mr Oswald gave a good imitation of a yawn. ‘It might have alleviated some of the boredom.’

Mr McBane smiled at him cheerfully. ‘I doubt any footpad would dare come anywhere near us with so many grooms and outriders as Oswald brought with him.’

‘My dear fellow, a man must have his comforts,’ Oswald said.

Mr Gilvry’s mouth flattened. ‘No doubt you are right.’

Whether he referred to the comforts Mr Oswald required or the size of the party putting off any villains, Jenna wasn’t quite sure. Likely both, from the look on his face.

‘I don’t know if you gentlemen are interested in history, but there are a few sites not far from here worth visiting,’ Mrs Preston said hesitantly. ‘Some ruined castles. And standing stones.’

Mr Oswald unsuccessfully hid yet another yawn. Mr Murray frowned.

Mr McBane on the other hand brightened. ‘Perhaps a picnic would be in order.’

‘My thought exactly,’ Jenna said. She was beginning to like this man, even if he was a little older than she had expected. He certainly seemed easier to please than the other two. But being easy to please could be a sign of lack of energy.

‘And we could arrange a day of sailing up the coast,’ she offered.

‘With fishing,’ Mr Murray said, looking more cheerful.

Mr Oswald shuddered. ‘I’ll vote for the picnic after all.’

Jenna couldn’t help it—she laughed.

He grinned at her. ‘And if there are enough of us, I would not be averse to an evening of cards.’

So that was where his preference lay. And if it was deep play he wanted, he was not the man for her. ‘I am sure it can be arranged,’ she said with a cool smile.

‘You are a wonderful hostess, Lady Jenna,’ he said with fervour. Oddly enough, she had the feeling he meant it.

The servants began to clear the last course.

‘Shall we retire, dear, and leave these gentlemen to their dram?’ Mrs Preston said, smiling brightly at the company. ‘After such a long journey we do not expect your company in the drawing room this evening, but we shall not let you off so lightly again.’

The gentlemen rose and smiled their agreement.

To a chorus of goodnights, she and Mrs Preston left the room.

* * *

‘They are all such handsome, eligible gentlemen,’ Mrs Preston said as they walked along the corridor to their respective chambers. ‘I have no idea how you will choose which one to marry.’

Jenna held back a hysterical laugh, a reaction to the panic she was feeling inside. ‘Neither do I.’

She hadn’t expected to know which of these men to choose at first sight, or to fall in love with. Indeed, that would be the last thing she wanted. She just hadn’t expected to be left feeling quite so indifferent.

* * *

Niall paused outside the library door, bracing to steady himself, and checked his cravat and fastened his coat buttons. He’d been on his way to bed after too much of Lord Carrick’s whisky. The other men had talked and he had listened. And drank. More than he should have. But not nearly enough to dampen the feeling of foreboding that had plagued him from the moment these men had arrived. A feeling that this role of watchdog was far more onerous than he could ever have imagined.

Being polite to men for whom he held a feeling of contempt. And, damn it, envy.

And now Lady Jenna had asked him to meet with her.

God help him, what on earth could she want at this time of the night? He hoped to hell she was wearing proper attire. His body tightened at the thought that she might not be. At the hope. The drink was making him stupid. The last thing he needed was any kind of entanglement with a woman he was supposed to be protecting as if she was his ward or his daughter.

He glowered at the door. He should just turn around and go to bed. See her in the morning, when his head was clear. But then, the footman who had caught him outside his chamber had said it was urgent.

Aware of that same footman watching in the hallway, he knocked. When invited, he stepped into the room, deliberately leaving the door open. He remained standing, barely over the threshold. ‘You sent for me, my lady.’

She was seated on the sofa, dressed in the rose-hued gown she’d worn at dinner tonight. A far more daring gown than the one she had worn to welcome their guests this afternoon. He’d had the strong urge to wrap her in a shawl when he’d first seen her in the drawing room where they had gathered before going into dinner. Especially after young Murray had openly ogled her breasts.

Though it was hard not to ogle—they were so bounteously displayed. But it had offended him the way Murray had looked at her: like a horse trader at a fair.

‘I am sorry to interrupt your evening, Mr Gilvry,’ she said, her voice brittle.

He dragged his gaze away from that lovely expanse of creamy flesh to gaze at her face. She looked anxious. Just as anxious as she’d looked this afternoon standing on the steps. Shouldn’t she be happy? She’d got her wish. Her choice of a husband. The idea of it churned in his stomach, mixing with whisky and the coarse talk of men in their cups.

He narrowed his eyes, squinting at her to make sure she stayed properly in focus. ‘How may I serve you, Lady Jenna?’ He glanced around pointedly for her companion. ‘The hour is late.’

She got up and paced to a small inlaid table on the other side of the room. She picked up the decanter. ‘May I offer you a dram?’

Oh, yes, that was all he needed. More whisky. He already had so little defence against all that lovely exposed flesh. Another drink and he’d be trying to ravish her on the sofa. ‘No, thank you, my lady.’ Ha. That sounded polite enough.

She splashed some of the golden liquid into a tumbler and took a deep swallow. ‘I find I am in need of some advice.’ Her voice trembled a little.

The word tumbled through the molasses in his brain. ‘Advice,’ he echoed. He pressed his lips together, determined to say nothing more until she revealed what was on her mind.