Page 30 of Who’s That Earl

The color leached from her face, and the rough sound in her throat made him think she was about to be sick. He held out a hand to her, and to his surprise, she took it, gripping the breadth of his palm with small but surprisingly strong fingers. After a moment, she had steadied herself enough to meet his gaze. He saw pain written there, the dull sort that spoke of some chronic, incurable wound. “You kept your promise?” she whispered, still clutching his hand. “You called on him? On me?”

“I did.”

If he believed in destiny, he would’ve been tempted to say he was keeping that promise still. Despite the years and oceans that had come between them, here he was.

Here they were.

“How did you end up in Balisaig?” he asked. Had she thought of him, the stories of his misspent youth with which he’d regaled her? Try as he might, he could not recall whether he’d ever named the village.

She drew back, the slightest movement, but he understood then that, however much she had needed to tell someone—tell him—what had happened, she was not yet ready to share the entire story.

After another pause, however, she continued, though not exactly with an answer to his question. “The journey to London was an education.” A shudder of memory passed through her. “After my second attempt to secure lodgings, I realized that it would be necessary to lie. A young, unmarried woman could have no hope of finding a respectable place, but perhaps a widow...? Mrs. Higginbotham was our housekeeper, and since it was her money, I began giving her name. Eventually, I found employment and was able to return her generous gift, with interest. When the opportunity to travel farther afield came, to put more distance between myself and Tenchley, I took it.”

A great deal had been glossed over in that telling, he knew. For one thing, she’d not mentioned Ratliff. But for now, the outlines of the story were more than enough. “Have you continued to correspond with Mrs. Higginbotham?” he asked. “Or your friend?”

Her eyes, which had been focused somewhere on the past, grew wide. “Heavens no. I’m sure my father saw to it that my name was unspeakable in Tenchley. Julia’s reputation would have been ruined if a secret correspondence with me had been discovered. I would never have put her at such a risk. Nor could I do anything that might jeopardize dear Mrs. Higginbotham’s position.”

“Then you know nothing of how your family fares?”

She paused, as if bracing herself. “Mama died of a sudden illness, four years ago. My father grows ever more bitter. I know what little I do because—because I reached out to my brother, once I was sure he was at Oxford. He understood, I think, that I was not entirely to blame for what happened.”

Entirely? Nothing she could have done would ever excuse her father’s willingness to send his own child to the wolves. He and his own father had not always seen eye to eye, but even in death his father had not abandoned him as utterly as Mr. Quayle had deserted Jane.

Again a pair of opposing instincts warred in his chest—on one side, a fierce desire to stay and protect her from future harm; on the other, a warrior’s need to seek out the one who’d harmed her already and make him face justice.

She shivered, and the movement transferred itself to him through their still-clasped hands. “You’re cold,” he said, squeezing her fingers and then releasing them, fighting the impulse to wrap his arms around her instead. “I suppose it would be ungentlemanly of me to offer to warm you.”

“Mr. Sutherland.” She shook her head and heaved a sigh, but as he’d hoped, his playful suggestion had driven some of the sorrow from her expression. It was replaced with reluctant amusement. “You really do spend a great deal too much time thinking about the effect of your kisses.”

With her teasing reply, the weight that had settled in his chest lifted just a bit. “Nay, lass,” he replied with a wink. “’Tis your kiss that preys on my mind.”

Two bright spots of color came into her cheeks. “You really mustn’t say such things.” Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Two strangers ought not to be spending so much time talking about kisses.”

“Strangers?” he echoed, trying to keep a fresh note of pain from his voice.

“What do we really know of one another? If this morning has proven anything, it’s that we’ve piled up a great many secrets between us—my reasons for claiming to be Mrs. Higginbotham, your real reasons for returning to Balisaig.”

Truths rose to the tip of his tongue. Just as quickly, he swallowed them. This was neither the time nor place to reveal anything to her. To say nothing of revealing everything.

She had already revealed that she feared Lord Magnus’s power to have her once more turned out of her home. Choosing this moment to announce he was the earl would surely cause more problems than it solved.

When he made no reply, a flicker of something—disappointment?—crossed her eyes. Her hood wobbled with another shiver. “I should go in. I have a great deal of work to make up now.” The ordinary primness had returned to her voice. With the slightest dip of a curtsy, she turned, slipped through the doorway, and was gone.

Though tempted to follow, he didn’t. She’d already given him more than he had any right to expect, and it was his turn to consider in what way he might best repay the debt.

He walked along the outer bailey, thinking first of returning to his quarters to mull over everything he’d learned. Restlessness sent his feet in the opposite direction. Morning had not yet given way to midday, and he could not bear to shut himself away in a windowless room while the sun shone, feeble though its warmth might be.

Reluctant to prod her secrets further, he decided to prod the castle’s instead. Poking his head into every open archway and unlocked door, he scouted the castle’s guardrooms (unmanned) and storerooms (mostly empty), coming, at last, to the stable, which housed a pair of donkeys and a tabby cat, which shot out of sight as soon as he entered. Dougan, who had been whistling tunelessly while he curried the rough-coated beasts, looked over one shoulder. The donkeys continued to eat and paid Thomas no mind.

“Good morning, Dougan,” he said, tipping his hat. The man’s once-red beard and hair had begun to turn white, and even in the dim light of the stable, Thomas could see that his kilt had been carefully patched in places.

“Aye?” He sounded nervous. Mrs. Murdoch had warned Thomas that Dougan was shy of strangers but had a good heart.

“Don’t let me interrupt your work. I’m just familiarizing myself with the lay of things. I suppose there isn’t much use for horses?” The donkeys could be employed for pulling a cart or even turning over the kitchen garden. Most of the soil of the Highlands was put to better use grazing cattle and sheep than raising grain.

Dougan shook his head in silent agreement and went back to plying the comb. Thomas was on the point of going out again—he hadn’t been looking for company, after all—when an empty stall in the shadows caught his eye.

Or rather, not empty. What filled it wasn’t horses or feed, however, but something oddly shaped, hidden beneath several dusty tarps. Probably nothing more exciting than a broken-down wagon or stacked crates. He took three meandering steps in its direction, as if the matter were really of very little interest to him.