Page 63 of Who’s That Earl

She took an involuntary step backward. “I had a note from Jonathan.”

“Ah, yes. That worthless young man.”

“Enough. I was subjected to your ranting and raving for years. I will not hear you abuse my brother. In fact, I’d say it’s your turn to listen.”

His gaze narrowed, but he let her speak.

“Seven years ago, you declared me dead to you. You ordered me—a seventeen-year-old girl—from your house. All over a story I had written, of which you did not approve. Now, as I understand it, you consider yourself entitled to some share of what I earned from those words, my words.”

“I hired your governess, didn’t I?” he broke in. “I bought books and paper and—”

“Do not pretend you educated me for my benefit. You did it to ensure you had a marriageable daughter. It was always your goal to be rid of me. You cared nothing for me at all.”

Foolishly, she had thought he might deny the claim. He set his jaw and said nothing.

“You intimidated me then. You will never do so again. So here is the return on your investment.” She tossed him a black woolen stocking—the last of her widow’s weeds—into the toe of which she had tied a few coins. They jingled when they landed on the floor at his feet. “Three shillings, eleven pence. A generous accounting of the value of the paper and ink I used to compose my first novel, one copy of which you tossed into the fire. I hope you consider it ample recompense for your journey. You’ll receive not a penny more.”

Mr. Ross gave a humorless laugh as he stepped toward her father. “Now, didna ye hear the lass? I’d say it’s past time for ye tae go.”

Glowering, her father held out a hand for his walking stick. Thomas, whose stern expression appeared to have been carved from granite, held the other man’s gaze as he snapped the stick as if it were no thicker than a twig.

“You Scottish ruffian! How dare you abuse me or my possessions! I suppose you’ve had your hands on my daughter, too? I’ll—”

“That Scottish ruffian is the Earl of Magnus,” Mr. Ross explained coolly. “And if ye were half as smart as yer daughter, ye’d be out the door afore he uses what’s left o’ that stick on yer heid.”

This final threat, though spoken in Mr. Ross’s thick brogue, seemed to penetrate the haze of her father’s anger. With a final curse, he kicked the knotted stocking aside and strode out the door.

Shaking, she sank to the sofa. Mr. Ross picked up the banyan and laid it gently around her shoulders. Thomas studied the jagged ends of the walking stick. “You should have stayed upstairs, Jane, and let me deal with him.”

“Let you bloody his nose, you mean,” she said, amazed to hear a hint of laughter in her voice. She felt freed, as if she’d cast off an enormous weight she had not known she was carrying.

“At the very least,” he agreed, softening at last. Some of the usual twinkle returned to his eyes. “If I’m ever to protect you, lass, you’ve actually got to let me do it.”

“You did something far more important, Thomas. You saved me from myself, from what I might’ve become. I was so busy proving I could survive on my own, I almost forgot what it was to laugh. What it was to love. Now, take me home,” she commanded, launching herself into his arms. “Home to Balisaig.”

A moment later, Mr. Ross gave a discreet cough. Jane would have taken a step back for propriety’s sake, but Thomas held her tightly. “I suppose you’ll be takin’ her in the curricle,” Mr. Ross asked irritably.

“Still worried you’ll have to walk?” Thomas teased. “No, I’ll hire a coach for the lady.”

“And leave Mr. Ross to drive my curricle? I don’t think so.”

Thomas chuckled low. “Very well, then. Ross can ride comfortably in the coach. With Athena and Aphrodite.”

“Nay, Magnus. Not the dogs. We had an agreement,” he protested.

But she was too busy kissing Thomas to hear the rest.

Chapter 24

The closer they drew to Balisaig, the quieter Jane grew. Thomas at first suspected discomfort; the journey was wearing, and though they’d enjoyed a surprisingly mild stretch of weather, it was still chilly for travel in an open carriage, no matter how well bundled up they were. He ought to have insisted she ride in the closed carriage with her trunks and her dogs and kept Ross in the curricle with him.

Or perhaps she was thinking through the plot problem she’d been trying to solve. She’d explained last night, over dinner at a posting inn, that the old books she’d been studying at the shop when he’d found her had presented a possible solution to her dilemma, but that she was still working through her idea.

Mostly, though, he feared she was dwelling on something that might not be so easily resolved.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her gaze focus alternately on the jagged, rocky horizon; on the soft green carpet that edged the roadway and crept across the field, blanketing the ground in a promise of spring; on the steady gray rumps of the horses trotting ever onward. The sun was low in the sky, and the gold and blue of afternoon was slowly bleeding into the orange and purple of twilight—they would only just reach Dunnock by nightfall—when she gave a firm jerk of her chin, as if she’d reached some silent conclusion.

Expecting her to announce that she’d finally devised a way for her characters to live in perfect felicity, he was more than taken aback when she declared, “I refuse to give up my work once we’re wed.”