The Pleasure of the Rose Page 8

  Fletcher stifled a smile. “And where is Mr. Duncan now?”

  MacDougal looked beyond Fletcher, who turned and saw a younger man approaching rapidly on foot, shaking his fist. “Damn ye! Damn ye to hell, MacDougal, if you shot me goat I’ll sic me hounds on ye!”

  “If ye kept that animal tethered it wouldn’t happen, Bill,” Douglas said calmly.

  Bill Duncan looked down at his goat and shook his head. “He chewed through the tether. It was a rope the size of a man’s fist, mind ye, and he still ate it like it were a lamb chop.”

  They both looked at Fletcher, apparently waiting for him to make a decision. He remembered Rosalyn’s suggestion: use your common sense.

  “When did you shoot the goat, Douglas?”

  “Dinner time yeste’day.”

  Fletcher didn’t want to make a mistake. He didn’t want to pit one crofter against another. “How about if the two of you slaughter the goat and split the meat?” He held his breath.

  “But he kilt me ram,” Bill said mournfully. “He coulda just led him back to me own place. Didn’t have ta kill it.”

  Fletcher looked at Douglas for some kind of answer.

  Douglas cursed and spit his wad of tobacco onto the grass. “That critter was too ornery to get close to. Nearly took a bite out o’ me arse.” He spat again. “I didna have no choice.”

  Fletcher took a breath. “Since the deed is done, gentlemen, I suggest you take my advice and split the meat. It will come in handy for both of your families come winter, won’t it?”

  The men studied one another. “Ye want the hide, man?” Douglas asked.

  Bill cut his gaze to Fletcher, then answered, “Nah, ye can ha’e it.”

  The men grudgingly shook hands and Fletcher took his leave, once again relieved that he had handled the situation calmly. Of course, these were easy. He wondered how he’d handle a truly difficult or dangerous situation.

  He nudged the mount east toward a stream, following it south as it burbled over the smooth stones toward the sea. A tiny cottage was perched on a rise, a small garden to one side. Out of the corner of his eye he caught just a glimpse of something red down by the stream. Moving closer, he realized it was a child, a toddler just learning to walk, in a red shirt, weaving dangerously close to the water.

  He glanced toward the cottage and saw no one. Laundry rustled in the breeze from a makeshift clothesline. The garden was empty.

  At that moment he heard a splash from the stream. He dismounted quickly and ran to the site to find the toddler sputtering and flailing about in the water. He scooped the child out and, with the boy coughing and crying, strode toward the cottage. At that very moment a woman threw open the door, her eyes huge as she looked at Fletcher and her soaked, wailing child.

  “Clive!” She reached for her boy, trying to settle him down once Fletcher passed him to her.

  “He had fallen into the river, ma’am.” Fletcher watched the terror in the woman’s eyes as he explained.

  Once both mother and child were more subdued, the woman invited Fletcher inside. While she changed the child into dry clothing, Fletcher looked around the cottage. It was clean and tidy, with colorful patchwork quilts thrown over some of the furniture.

  The woman returned, put the child on the floor, and motioned for Fletcher to take a seat at the table. “Me name’s Birgit, Your Grace. Ye’ll stay for a wee cuppa?”

  He assumed that meant tea, so he nodded while she prepared it.

  The toddler, quiet and curious, sat on the floor and rubbed his cheek against the fur of Fletcher’s greatcoat and tucked his thumb into his mouth. Fletcher picked the boy up and settled him against the crook of his arm, where he sat quite contentedly.

  The tea set out, the woman said, “Your Grace, I canna thank ye enough. Ye saved me Clive!” Tears threatened. “He be wandering off so much, I canna keep track of him. Some days I feel like putting him on a leash just to keep him safe.”

  She wasn’t a pretty woman, but she was comely and the tea was strong and sweet, just as he’d begun to like it. “You know, when my younger brother was just a lad, he was the same way. Always off somewhere, scaring everyone to death with his curiosity. They put little bells on his moccasins so they would always know where he was.”

  She brightened. “Aye, that’s a fine idea. I’ll have Fergie get on it as soon as he and the boys return from the village.”

  Fletcher slanted her a glance. “Fergie the Burn?”

  She straightened, proud. “Aye, Fergie is me man. He be a good man.”

  “I’ve met your husband. Yes, he is a good man.” Fletcher finished his tea and stood, and handed her the boy. “Thank you for the tea.”

  “Nay, ’twas nothing,” she answered. “Ye saved me Clive, Your Grace.” Her eyes welled with tears again. “I’m grateful, so grateful.” She gave him a clumsy curtsey. “And we’ll be sure to try them bells on Clive’s shoes, we will.”

  Fletcher understood small-town mentality—rarely could anyone keep a secret and everyone knew everyone else’s business. But he had no idea how swiftly the news of Clive’s rescue rumbled through the island community.

  He’d barely sat down to dinner that evening when Geddes reported that the news of Fletcher’s heroism was all over the island. Fletcher could only wonder if they used smoke signals to get the message around so quickly.

  Chapter Seven

  In the weeks since Fletcher awoke to find Rosalyn warming his bed, he had realized she avoided him as much as possible. Hoping to amuse himself, he became acclimated to his new surroundings. He was more comfortable astride a horse than sitting in a carriage or a gig, and although he had ridden since he arrived, he had not carefully studied the horses at the stable.

  One day he noticed a brown-and-white stallion, an impatient steed, frisky and anxious to run. This was the animal he wanted. He called him Ahote, which meant “restless one.” He’d asked Evan, the stable boy, about the breed.

  “’Tis an Irish Hunter, Yer Grace,” Evan told him, and went on to explain the breed, a combination of Irish Draught mare and Thoroughbred stallion, most likely an Arabian. “Bred for jumping and racing.”

  So in the days afterward, man and horse flew across the sand together, soon followed by the huge, shaggy wolfhounds and menagerie of other dogs that slept in the stable. They rode into the cold, damp wind, and over the coarse grass that peppered the island. Often, at sunset, Fletcher sat astride the animal and watched as the sun slipped below the watery horizon, leaving streaks of purple, orange, and yellow.

  From there he could look back and see the castle in the distance, amazed that all of this was his. His father had told him it was a small castle compared to many, but it was bigger than any damn building Fletcher had ever seen. He learned that the ivy-covered, two-and-a-half-story red stone edifice had been built in the thirteenth century on the ruins of an earlier Viking fortress. Whatever his ancestors had been, good or daft or completely amoral, the buildings and grounds were well maintained and the rooms filled with furnishings that rivaled museum pieces.

  The more he walked the property, the more he understood why men settled down. He found himself bound to this place in an eerily natural way, even though it was different from anything he had ever experienced. Perhaps it was because everywhere he looked he could imagine his father as a boy, racing over the grass, peering out one of the upstairs windows, or climbing onto the roof and settling against the chimney to watch the ocean and the sky. He now lived in the stories of his youth, images that had seemed so far away back then. Here he felt less lost than anywhere else he had ever been.

  He wanted his brothers and sister here. Like him, they were bound to this land by blood and bone and heritage. He smiled—he even thought of Gavin that way, for he had been his brother for many years. It had been over a month and there had been no word from the agency.

  As he took the path behind the stables, he heard a woman’s voice coming from inside. Curious, he stepped to the window and then pulled bac
k quickly. He carefully looked in again and saw Rosalyn sitting on a stool, her back to the window, talking to Sima, the wolfhound bitch that had a litter of pups. He didn’t find it unusual for her to be exposing her soul to a dog. At his loneliest moments he’d talked to his horse.

  Rosalyn held one of the pups in her lap and stroked it tenderly.

  “Everyone has an opinion about my life, Sima.”

  The dog looked up at Rosalyn, her tail thumping as several of her pups nursed.

  “Geddes is insistent, of course, thinking he knows what’s best for me,” she said conversationally. “He’s always been so practical. Well, not always. There was that time when he was a far younger man and we were on holiday in Vienna with our tutor. Our da had a cousin who had some connections to the Austrian court, so we’d been invited to tea.” She stopped and chuckled, remembering. “There was this beautiful, fragile girl there and Geddes fell in love immediately. Unfortunately, we learned she was an Austrian princess and not at all interested in some pale, lanky schoolboy from Scotland. He was heartbroken when she rebuffed him. Sometimes I think that’s why he’s never allowed himself to fall in love again.” She cuddled the pup close, nuzzling it with her nose. “He won’t take chances with his life, but he’s willing to take chances with mine.

  “I know why he wants me to marry. Oh, indeed, he’s anxious for an heir so the estate is secure, but he also wants me out of his hair, although he would never admit as much.

  “I do wish Fen hadn’t gone to the mainland. I need to talk this entire thing over with her before it’s too late.” She put the pup down next to its mother and it immediately rooted around for an available teat. “I don’t know the duke well enough, Sima. I can’t trust my own judgment. He might be as evil as Leod, but how will I know until it’s too late?”

  Fletcher leaned against the stable wall next to the window and closed his eyes. What reasons had he given her to trust him at all? And who was this Leod and how did he fit into Rosalyn’s life?

  He glanced back through the window just as she reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a griddle scone. She broke it into pieces and fed it to the bitch, who took each piece delicately, yet eagerly. And then Evan entered the stable, so Fletcher moved away from the window again.

  “Good day, mistress.”

  “Oh, Evan, aren’t these the most beautiful pups?”

  “Aye, they are.”

  “Have you picked out the one you want?”

  “Aye,” he said. “The one with the bushiest eyebrows. He reminds me of my uncle Artair who lives on Mull.”

  “Artair means ‘bear,’” Rosalyn said.

  “Aye. I’ll call him Bear.”

  “Well, he’s a beauty, Evan. One of the males is spoken for, of course, but do you think we can find homes for the others?” Rosalyn asked.

  “’Tis a job I’ll take on happily, mistress.”

  “All but one,” Rosalyn said. “I think perhaps I should keep one of the pups, don’t you?”

  “Aye,” he said, pausing before he left. “You should pick the one you want to keep, mistress. Do you think His Grace would want one?”

  Rosalyn paused. “All of the hounds follow him around already; I don’t think he needs any more adoration.”

  Evan glanced at her, puzzled, but said nothing.

  Fletcher smothered a chuckle from behind the stable wall.

  Rosalyn sighed and picked up the pup she’d earlier held on her lap. “I’ve grown quite attached to this little lassie. She’s found her way into my heart. I’ll call her Bonnie, because she is such a bonnie little thing.”

  Fletcher watched Evan leave the stable, but before he left too, he heard Rosalyn speak. “Picking a loveable pup is easy; ’tis picking a good husband that’s impossible.”

  • • •

  Days later, tired of wearing Geddes’s clothing, Fletcher entered the foyer, still hunched over from the early March chill. He bounded up the staircase as Rosalyn approached. “Good day, ma’am.”

  She looked up, surprised to find him there. “You’re wearing a kilt,” she said with astonishment, but no smile accompanied it.

  He’d nearly frozen his balls off when he stepped outside. But he gave her a nonchalant shrug. “Yes. I felt the clothes you had Barnaby bring me were too fancy. I thought I’d save them for the wedding.”

  Her expression was priceless. She looked horrified. “You wouldn’t. And anyway,” she added hastily, “it won’t be necessary. Your clothes have arrived; they’re in your suite.”

  He bit back a grin. “Lucky for you they arrived when they did. Otherwise, what else would I have worn to the wedding?”

  She finally realized he was teasing her and she appeared to stop a smile. “I had nothing to do with Barnaby finding those clothes.”

  “But you saw them, and you didn’t discourage him from bringing them to me.” When she didn’t answer, he said, “You didn’t really think I’d wear them, did you?”

  Her expression told him that she had hoped he would.

  “As for the kilt, I like it.” He glanced down at the plaid. When she didn’t respond, he said, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  “I have your household to run, Your Grace.” She started to leave, but he caught her arm. She tensed.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She seemed frozen in place, so he leaned in close, pulling her toward him. She smelled of roses and woman—a scent he remembered well. A scent he conjured up often when he was in bed alone, wishing he could remember every moment of their mating, cursing when he could not remember it at all. Her skin was pale, flawless. Her wheat-colored hair, pulled into a severe braid at the base of her neck, had a healthy shine. He wanted to see it spread out on his pillow. He longed to see desire in her eyes; he wanted to see her sated. He surprised himself when he realized he wanted her. “Do you never smile?”

  She looked away. “I’ve had little to be joyous about of late.”

  “Do you dread our marriage so much, Rosalyn?”

  She turned quickly and looked at him, as if her name on his tongue startled her. “I was married once, Your Grace. It was quite enough to satisfy me for a lifetime.”

  Evil Leod. Fletcher released his grip but kept his hand on her arm.

  She didn’t move away.

  “Someday I would like to know more about the man who put such pain in your eyes.”

  She pulled her arm from his touch. When she looked at him her gaze was veiled, yet he could still see the lack of trust. “I’m afraid it’s a subject I don’t discuss with anyone.”

  He nearly said, Not even with Sima?, but thought better of it. “Not even your future husband?”

  She studied him for a long moment, then said, “Nay, not even my future husband.”

  He felt a stab of disappointment that she could not confide in him, but he had given her no reason to and he was sorry. Whatever it took, he would learn why she felt as she did. He also had to assure her that he was not an oaf or a buffoon or a savage. “Rosalyn.”

  She turned away. “I have duties. Excuse me.”

  “Rosalyn,” he said again.

  She paused halfway down the stairs but did not turn back.

  “I apologize for my crudeness when we first met.”

  She didn’t move.

  “I will try to curb my foul language. I’ve been among men most of my life without a woman to consider. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  She hurried away and he studied her, her back straight, her chin high. There were layers upon layers of her that he had yet to discover. He realized with some surprise that he looked forward to it.

  He returned to his rooms and found the clothing neatly put away in the wardrobes and dresser. It was decent enough—not like his buckskins, but it would do. He dressed carefully in casual wear—brown trousers and waistcoat and a white shirt.

  It was time to stop in and surprise the pub owner with a visit.

  He saddled Ahote and rode into the village. Shoppe
rs stopped and watched him. He nodded and one woman actually curtseyed. The village was clean and well kept. Freshly painted buildings were built close together, possibly for warmth. Everything faced the water. One building stood alone. He raised an eyebrow. The brothel. Geddes had been apologetic when he’d mentioned it, as if it were his fault that sort of business was on the island at all.

  A young girl with a mane of curly red hair came outside and shook a dust mop as he rode by. He greeted her warmly, but she merely stared at him and ran back into the building.

  Up ahead was the sign for the Potted Haugh, MacNab’s pub. Wind and weather had made it nearly unreadable. So much for a clean and sparkling village.

  He was going into this blindly. He should have gotten more information from Geddes, but when he’d learned Rosalyn had been attacked by this man he felt that was enough for a confrontation—or a meeting. He dismounted and when he pulled open the door to the pub, the filthy odor of stale fish and oil that hit his nostrils was so strong it made his eyes water.

  Behind the bar stood an ornery-looking man with sparse, lifeless hair that fell down over his eyes. With a hand as big as a pig’s shank he wiped a gray rag over the bar top and followed Fletcher’s movements, his gaze not leaving him.

  “Angus MacNab?”

  “I’d ask who wants ta know, but it ain’t every day a savage enters me pub.”

  Fletcher forced a smile. “Nice to meet you, too.”

  MacNab studied him for a long moment, then said, “The old laird were me friend.”

  Fletcher raised his eyebrows. “Is that so? Did he frequent your pub?”

  MacNab’s laugh turned into a tobacco cough that growled into his throat. “We had other things in common.”

  As Fletcher waited for him to go into detail, he took in everything about the room. The floor was wood, but some boards were warped and cracked, causing the floor to slant toward the back of the room. The bar stools were sturdy, but what finish they’d had at one time was long worn off. The two small windows by the front door were filthy; Fletcher could barely make out what was on the other side of them.