Page 26 of Who’s That Earl

First, tucked among the stacks of papers, leases, and accounts, he’d found pamphlets of advice about land management. As he’d learned as he rode along, landlords throughout the Highlands were clearing more land for grazing. Displaced tenants had been reduced from farmers to crofters. All was done in the name of improvement, but Thomas could easily see that the change did little to improve the tenants’ lives.

Mr. Watson’s endorsement of the plan would have been enough to fuel Thomas’s doubts about the idea, if not for the concern that Dunnock must remain profitable or all would suffer. He thought of the Shaws. Ross was right—the people here were tough, survivors through many a struggle. Modern agricultural practices could not be ignored, however. If they did not keep up with the times, the people of Balisaig were doomed to be left behind. Change, in other words, was inevitable. But it would go more smoothly with a steady hand to guide it.

And that steady hand ought by rights to belong to the Earl of Magnus. To him.

Damn and blast.

His second point of hesitation was Jane. It had been far easier to imagine leaving Dunnock behind when it had not also involved leaving her. And the notion that he might be leaving her in danger only made matters worse.

How long, though, could he stay at Dunnock without revealing the real reason he’d come?

In three days, Ratliff’s lease expired. Thomas could renew it, of course. He’d brought the necessary paperwork from Edinburgh. A few strokes of the pen and he would be assured of a profitable tenant for at least another year. He could return to London, resume his military duties, and manage Dunnock from afar, as his predecessor had done.

But if, as he was beginning to fear, circumstances demanded that he stay in Balisaig and take up his responsibilities here, then naturally he’d take up residence at Dunnock, sending the writer—and his lovely amanuensis—packing.

His gaze drifted back to the window. He needed to think like a laird. Or an intelligence officer. Not a lover. Because he hadn’t set out on this journey to woo a lass and settle down with her, despite General Scott’s broad hint. And in any case, the lass he’d found was not terribly interested in being wooed.

At least, not if the current set of her shoulders was any indication.

For despite the mottled glass, he had little doubt that hers was the figure striding across the street toward the pub, her skirts swaying with barely contained energy, the dogs dancing at her heels.

The sight surprised him. He’d fully expected to discover that she’d set out for Dunnock without him, merely to prove she could. But she hadn’t, and perhaps that was a positive development?

He bent low enough to peer through one of the occasional clear panes of glass from which the window had been fashioned.

The stern set of Jane’s jaw and her flashing eyes came into sharp focus. Definitely not a good sign.

God, he wished he could believe he was not the object of that fierce look and even fiercer posture. But he could figure the odds quick enough, given her obvious destination. And he was about to find out precisely what had driven her in his direction when the door to the pub would swing open in a half-dozen strides. Five...four...

“How many letters does Robin Ratliff get in a week? Or a month?” he asked, turning swiftly toward Ross.

Ross looked bewildered at the question. “I couldn’t say. Everything that comes for Dunnock is addressed to Mrs. Higginbotham. She told Elspeth that Mr. Ratliff’s publisher sometimes forwards things from London for him, under cover to her.”

Just as the threat had been. Thomas nodded. Even if only a clerk in London and the handful of people in Balisaig knew where to find the famous author, it would not be difficult for the one who’d written the letter to discover it. Years as a secret agent had taught Thomas that someone determined to do harm would find a way to get the necessary information.

If the letter writer succeeded in tracking Robin Ratliff to Balisaig, he’d be frustrated to discover that the author was away. Jane herself could easily become the target of his violence.

“If you notice any changes, anything unusual in the post for Dunnock, tell me,” he demanded, just as the door swung inward, temporarily blocking him from the view of the person who’d opened it.

He expected to hear the dogs charging in, barking. He expected Jane to announce herself with an exclamation. Even an oath.

But she did no such thing.

“Good morning, Mr. Ross.” Her voice was all sugary sweetness, a demeanor that lost some credibility when she snapped, “No, Aphrodite. Sit. Stay with your sister.”

“They’re most welcome, Mrs. Higginbotham,” insisted Ross. “An’ you yourself, of course.”

“I couldn’t possibly. The snow’s begun to melt, and they’re wet from the ends of their noses to the tips of their tails. I won’t stay a moment.” She stepped just beyond the arc of the door’s path and began to close it behind her. “I was only looking for Mr. Sutherland.”

With a merry twinkle, Ross’s eyes directed her to where Thomas stood. She turned abruptly and, despite the honeyed voice she’d used with Ross, looked him up and down disapprovingly. As if he’d been deliberately hiding from her. As if he were the one who’d left muddy paw prints on her skirts.

Her attention snapped back to Ross. “Has Elspeth finished the book I loaned her?”

“I canna say for certain, ma’am, but I don’ believe so,” Ross said, when he’d recovered from his surprise at the abrupt change of subject. His hand moved beneath the bar, and Thomas suspected he’d pushed the book well out of Jane’s sight. “We’d a full house last night, what with the weather turnin’ poorly.”

“Of course. No rush at all. Please tell her I’ll bring down the third volume whenever she’s ready for it.”

Ross dipped his head. “Indeed I will, ma’am.”