Page 5 of Who’s That Earl

She knew—had always known—that some people did not approve of novels. Particularly not the sort of lurid, gothic tales she penned under the name Robin Ratliff. She was no stranger to criticism.

But this was different. Not just a critique. A threat. Oh, a rather melodramatic one, to be sure—unless the writer’s skills at dark magic actually rivaled her fictional creation’s. Nevertheless, the words had sent an unwelcome sensation of alarm slithering down her spine.

Just for good measure, she tugged the knife free and stabbed the offending papers again.

From the puddle of canine devotion near the hearth came a weary groan. “I know, I know,” she murmured consolingly. She did not intend to let idle threats and pointless worries keep her from her work.

Neither did she remove the blade from the wood.

Instead, she drew a half-filled page toward her, while reaching for a pen with the other hand. Leaning back into the chair, she brushed the feather across her lips as she scanned the words she’d written earlier:

Fog rippled through the undergrowth...Was that a spectral glow emanating from one of the vaults in the churchyard? No, the light came from farther off, somewhere in the woods...Allora’s pale hand trembled as she laid it against the stone window ledge...

Jane’s gaze drifted from the paper in her hand to the crackling fire. One of the dogs had begun to snore. This would never do. Tossing the pen aside, she pushed herself away from the desk and walked to the window to open it. The room was too warm, that was all.

She’d come all the way to Scotland for crumbling stone walls and wild landscapes. For whatever local legends she could unearth: will o’ the wisps and witches, demon bear-ghosts and time-traveling stone circles. For inspiration.

Most of all, in Scotland she was free. And she was not going to let a pair of letters take her freedom from her.

Thrusting open the glass—which was as narrow and crisscrossed with lead as anyone of a romantic disposition could wish—she drew in a deep gulp of damp, wintry air. The gloom of twilight had newly settled in the vales and crags, and far below, parts of Dunnock Castle had already disappeared into darkness. In the distance, the loch was as black as a pool of spilled ink.

Her eyes traveled eagerly from one shadowy place to the next. Though the misty rain threatened to turn to sleet at any moment, her heroine, Allora, would not stay cozy and secure inside on a night like this. She would pick her way among the rugged rocks, though her slippers offered no protection from their mercilessly sharp edges. She would press on across the frost-bitten heath, despite being clad in nothing but her nightdress. She would make her way past the ancient kirk, slipping between the mossy gravestones, although she knew too well the rumors that—

“Gracious, ma’am! You’ll catch your death.”

Agnes Murdoch, the elderly housekeeper, stood just inside the threshold, drawn up to her full height of four feet, eleven inches.

Jane had had no notice of the woman’s arrival, too lost in her own thoughts to have heard footsteps on the winding staircase of the south tower or even a tap on the door. The dogs’ silence had long since been bought by Mrs. Murdoch’s bits of cheese. One glance at the plush cushions by the fire confirmed that they had not stirred themselves to give warning, though one watchful eye gleamed from a mound of brown and white fur. Agnes might have something of interest in her pocket, after all.

Mrs. Murdoch looked from Jane to the desk and back again, evidently torn between her desire to snatch the window frame from her mistress’s hand and slam it shut, and the more suitably servant-like behavior of snatching up the papers that had been scattered by the gust of wind.

Jane took pity on her and closed the window. The papers ceased their skittish dance across the polished desktop and onto the floor. She could only hope all the magic had not gone out of them.

“There’s a gentleman below, asking for you, ma’am.” Agnes announced at last.

“Who could be calling at this hour?”

One of Agnes’s shoulders lifted. Abashed, she shook her head. “Dougan didna think t’ ask his name.”

Jane nodded her understanding. Dougan had the heart and mind of a child in a man’s body. Folks would consider it a great kindness if ye could see your way to keepin’ him on, Agnes had told her when she’d first arrived at Dunnock. He likes to feel useful about the place.

As it had turned out, feeling useful primarily involved Dougan marching back and forth across the parapet in his kilt, occasionally while playing the bagpipes, but Jane had readily agreed to retain him as gatekeeper. At the time, she’d expected no visitors.

Now, however...She glanced toward her desk and the letters. A shiver passed through her, and she stepped away from the window, though the glass was tightly closed.

Could the arrival be the new earl?

“Dougan didn’t mention the man arriving in a crested coach drawn by six black horses, with outriders to match, did he?” The noblemen in her stories, nefarious rogues every one of them, always traveled in such a fashion.

“No, indeed.” The prospect of entertaining such a grand personage visibly alarmed the elderly housekeeper. “Verra handsome he is, though.”

In most respects, the housekeeper was as stern and proper as could be desired. Persuaded that Mrs. Higginbotham must be lonely in her isolation, however, she was also prone to take every opportunity to point out eligible men. Past efforts had ranged from the scrawny, red-faced cotter’s son who had brought them fresh vegetables in the summer to the silver-haired sexton, who always had dirt beneath his nails. To Jane’s relief—and Agnes’s chagrin—the environs of Dunnock Castle included very few “braw lads.”

Not that Jane was indifferent to the attractions of a fine masculine form. She was, after all, just four and twenty and blessed with excellent eyesight. But being appreciative of a man’s looks did not mean being susceptible to his charms. She had taken pains to make herself perfectly independent, and she was more than content to leave such foolishness to elderly servants and the misguided heroines of fiction.

“That’s as may be, I suppose,” Jane retorted primly, grimly.

Agnes set her face in an expression to match Jane’s. “Then you’ll come down, ma’am.”