How the Dukes Stole Christmas Page 20

  The man didn’t budge, and Annis couldn’t help but wonder if he had even heard her father. His gaze skimmed the lot of them. “The Sinclair has nothing tae say tae any of you.”

  Annis blinked, imagining that his top lip curled faintly.

  Papa’s chest swelled at the servant’s impertinence. “Now see here—”

  Shockingly, the man turned, not even bothering to hear out her father’s speech, and presented them all with his back.

  Cordelia huffed. “What an insolent boor! The duke should sack him.”

  Papa’s face flushed and Annis knew he was not quite certain how to proceed.

  “Papa, perhaps we should go,” she suggested. She’d never wanted to come along to begin with, but Mama had insisted. Annis was the second oldest. Although not a beauty like Regan or Imogen, Mama expected Annis to make a match for herself—whether she wanted such a thing or not.

  “Leave?” Regan demanded. “Without meeting the duke? We can’t! Mama said we must meet him. One of us will surely win him. Mama insists he will naturally fall in love with one of us as we are all passing fair and I’m the prettiest! I want to be a duchess!” She stomped her foot beneath her skirts.

  Annis blinked slowly and shook her head, certain that the duke could hear them from wherever he lurked inside the castle. It was mortifying.

  The servant was almost to the front door when he stopped, turned, and addressed them all. “I can assure you, Sinclair will no’ fall in love with any of you. Extend your time and efforts elsewhere and return home.”

  “How do you know?” Cordelia demanded with a belligerent thrust of her chin.

  He took his time answering, stepping forward a pace, and Annis couldn’t help noticing the length of his well-muscled legs encased in wool trousers and boots. He towered over all of them. A bitterly cold breeze lifted and tossed his dark hair around his head. His stark handsomeness was so much like the surrounding countryside—wild and harsh and a little bit dangerous. “Because I’m the duke.” The announcement dropped like a stone in the air between them. “And I’d just as soon kiss the arse end of a sheep as wed any of you lasses.”

  That said, he entered through the great wood door and shut it on them with a resounding thud.

  Chapter Three

  Present day . . .

  Annis could still hear the thud of that thick door shutting on them as they’d all stood in a shocked, frozen tableau. The sound had echoed through her ears these many nights.

  Now that awful man was here, in her house. In her foyer.

  Heat crawled up her face, and she was grateful for the distance between them. She was up here and he was all the way down there. Hopefully he could not detect her flaming cheeks. Perhaps he would not even recognize her. She had been one of five girls in his courtyard that day, after all. And she most certainly looked different now. She was wearing a nightgown and stood several stones’ throw from him in a shadowy foyer.

  “You.” His deep voice rang out in the great hall.

  Blast. He recognized her.

  She gripped the railing and reminded herself that this was her home. She belonged here. Duke or not, he did not.

  She lifted her chin. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come tae fetch Fenella and Angus.” His brogue was a little less intense than the other locals. A fraction more cultured. She should have noted it that day when they assumed him to be a servant.

  She scowled down at him. First he said he would rather kiss a sheep’s backside than marry her or any of her sisters and now he was here to steal away her household staff and leave her truly alone in this great pile of stones. No. Not happening.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “I thought your family left.” His gaze flicked to either side of her as though he expected her sisters to rise up beside her.

  “Och, they did leave.” Fenella darted a glance up at her. “But they forgot ’er.”

  Embarrassment flushed through her at the bold statement.

  He looked between Annis and Fenella before asking of the housekeeper, “Forgot her? What do you mean they forgot her?” Bewilderment rang out in his voice.

  Annis released a heavy breath. Her mortification intensified.

  “I have a large family,” she cried out in defense.

  He stared up at her as though she possessed two heads. “So they forgot you?”

  Why did that sound so much worse when uttered aloud? “They left in a rush. Snow was rising in the pass.”

  Fenella nodded sagely. “She’s stuck ’ere.”

  He grumbled something in Gaelic and dragged a hand through his snow-dusted hair. He paced a small circle, tracking muddy snow over the foyer floor.

  She eyed him warily. More refined brogue or not, it was still difficult to believe that this man was a duke and not a servant. She’d seen dukes in London; all from afar, but she had observed them and he bore no resemblance to those dignified well-turned-out nobles.

  Her gaze raked his tall form. In his well-worn greatcoat, the man looked more like a common laborer than a nobleman. He was coarse and rough and . . . virile.

  He stopped his pacing and glared up at her. “Verra well then,” he snapped, every line of him vibrating with hostility. “Gather a few things. You’ll also have tae come.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere with you, Your Grace, and neither are Fenella and Angus. Now if you would be so kind as to remove yourself from my home. It is quite late.”

  For a moment he looked amused, but then the gust of laughter that escaped him did not sound mirthful. “You’re coming with me. A band of thieves is terrorizing the countryside, robbing all the houses locked up for the winter. I’m not about tae leave an old man, a woman, and a fool girl tae defend themselves against the unsavory lot.”

  “Thieves,” she echoed. An image of wild ruffians bursting inside the castle filled her mind. She looked to the door that stood slightly ajar, wind and snow tufting inside through the slight opening.

  “Aye, brigands.” His deep voice recaptured her attention. “The vicar from a nearby village ventured out tae warn us. If you wish tae return home in the spring with your virtue and life intact, I suggest you return tae your room and garb yourself appropriately and pack for the ride tae my castle.”

  She couldn’t move. His story of brigands could not be true. In this modern day and age such things did not happen.

  And his suggestion—no, demand—that she come with him to his keep. Ridiculous. He was a surly boor, and she would not go anywhere with him.

  She recovered her voice. “We appreciate your concern, but we will be fine. The doors have bolts and the windows—”

  “Are you daft, lass?” Shaking his head, he stalked up the stairs toward her.

  Annis backed away from the railing. “What are you doing?” He was not coming upstairs. He wouldn’t dare. “Stop right there, Sinclair!” Yes. He was a duke, but the designation stuck in her throat. It was too polite, too formal, too gentle an address for a man such as he.

  Still, he kept coming, his booted feet biting hard into the steps. She backed away from the railing, watching his head first appear, then his shoulders, then the rest of him. Heavens, he really was large.

  He didn’t relent until he reached the landing, where he stopped several feet from her. Then it was just the two of them.

  “You shouldn’t be here. This is vastly inappropriate.” Was that strangled squeak her voice?

  He pointed at her. “Dress for the journey. We’re leaving.”

  “No, you’re leaving.”

  “You selfish lass.” His blue gaze blistered her where she stood. “If you haven’t a care for yourself, then think of that old couple down there.” He stabbed a finger to where Fenella stood below. “If you stay, they stay. I won’t be able tae persuade them otherwise. And they will attempt tae defend this place. And you. What do you think those ruffians will do tae them?” His chest rose on an inhalation. “Or do you no’ give a bloody damn?�
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  She released a shuddering breath, rattled at the scenario he painted. If there was even a kernel of truth to it, she couldn’t remain here.

  “What’s it tae be?” he pressed. “Will you walk out willingly like a good lass? Or shall I carry you? Because I’m no’ letting Fenella and Angus die for you.”

  His gaze held hers, hard and fast. Annis forced herself to not look away. She had never felt so . . . seen. With so many sisters, she was accustomed to being invisible.

  “Well?” he prodded.

  No. She didn’t want them to get hurt for her, either. She didn’t want anyone to get hurt.

  She needed to put her silly embarrassment over their first encounter aside. The appropriateness of traveling alone with him, with only servants as chaperones, couldn’t matter. This was a dire situation. Besides. No one need ever know that for a short while she had been alone with the unconventional Duke of Sinclair. Certainly the brigands would be apprehended and then she could return here with Fenella and Angus until the pass cleared.

  She nodded, ignoring the small tremor of excitement rushing through her at the prospect of an adventure with this striking man. She was not like her sisters with a head quick to turn for a handsome face. “Very well. I’ll change my clothes.”

  * * *

  Calder remembered her well.

  She was the one that was shoved from the carriage. She had been an undignified pile of ruffled skirts with several shrill females around her.

  He couldn’t recall much of the other Ballister chits other than that they’d made his ears bleed from all their painful caterwauling. Except he remembered her. She had been quiet. He recalled that about her. Her eyes had been as wide and blue as a spring sky, and her face had gone pink as the drama unfolded around her.

  What kind of people forgot their own daughter or sister?

  Shaking his head, he descended the stairs to where Fenella stood glaring at him.

  She propped her fists on her narrow hips. “Now, lad, ye dinna have tae be mean tae her. She’s a good one. No’ like those worthless sisters of ’ers.”

  He shrugged, not liking that Fenella’s opinion closely matched his own. This one was different from her sisters, but not different enough. She was still English. Still on the hunt for a duke. Still didn’t belong here.

  And he had no interest in marriage. Especially not to someone with a family like hers. He winced as he recalled the blaring mob of sisters. He hadn’t even met the mother, but the girls had been more than enough. No way would he bind himself to that clan.

  He addressed Fenella. “Are you ready?”

  She pursed her lips. “Dinna pretend she’s nae pretty. Ye ken it.”

  Calder shrugged. “A pretty face doesn’t affect me.”

  Fenella released a rough laugh. “It affects every man.”

  “She could be the most beautiful woman in Scotland and I wouldn’t—”

  “Ye need a bride and Glencrainn needs new blood.”

  Her words fell like heavy weights on his chest, pressing and pushing the air from him. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard someone voice such an opinion. Fenella especially was fond of telling him how to live his life and had done so ever since he was a boy. Only lately, since he turned thirty, those inclined to share such an opinion were becoming more vocal about it.

  “Are you suggesting that lass and I . . .” Calder couldn’t articulate the rest. Who could believe Fenella was suggesting such a thing? She wanted him to take a Sassenach to wife? For her, the English victory at Culloden happened yesterday and not a generation ago.

  “Aye. Ye put it off long enough. How old are ye now?”

  “No’ verra old,” he snapped.

  “Mmm-hmm.” She lifted her eyebrows dubiously. “Older than both yer parents when they died.”

  “Thank you for that somber reminder.” She made it sound like he could drop dead any moment—and this from a woman who had been alive since the Magna Carta was signed.

  “Life is fleeting.” She snapped her fingers for illustration, her knuckles red and swollen from the labors of life. “’Twas a sign when all these lasses showed up ’ere.” She looked heavenward. “And then they forgot ’er . . . and she’s the best of the lot! It’s providential.” She motioned to the stairs gleefully. “That lass is for ye. Dinna be stubborn and risk losing ’er.”

  He stared at Fenella’s gaunt, lined face. Had she finally succumbed to senility? “You’re mad.”

  She made a sound of disgust. “I’m sane as can be and see things perfectly. Better than ye. Och, I ken what ye need.”

  He sighed and glanced to the door. It was still cracked, the cold gusting through the small opening. He moved to shut it. They really needed to be on their way. They didn’t have time for this delay.

  Fenella continued, “I ken just the thing tae help ye.”

  He looked back at her warily. “What do you mean?”

  She wagged a finger. “Wait ’ere.”

  “Wake Angus,” he called after her. “And fetch your things. We need tae be on our way posthaste.”

  “Aye, I’ll rouse him,” she muttered. “That man would sleep through doomsday.”

  He watched her shuffle away, a tight anxiety gripping his chest. It had been there since the moment he’d heard about the brigands and realized Fenella and Angus were all alone here and at their mercy. Now, after finding the girl also here, the tightness in his chest squeezed harder.

  He’d known Fenella and Angus since he was a boy and his cousin lived here—before his cousin lost his inheritance in some stupid card game to Ballister. He’d practically lived under this very roof after his parents had died, cleaving to his older cousin. That was until Dougall decided to go frolicking about, spending money he did not possess. Last he’d heard, Dougall was traipsing his way through Europe. Damn irresponsible fool.

  He waited tensely, pacing a short line and glancing to the high window where snow fell against a backdrop of night. Calder doubted the uncomfortable sensation in his chest would relent until he was safely back at Glencrainn with his charges. He winced. Even if that meant he was now stuck with a title-hungry heiress. Taking the Ballister lass home with him would undoubtedly compromise her, but there was nothing he could do to prevent that. He couldn’t abandon her here.

  He cast another quick glance to the door. The brigands typically raided at night and he doubted they would leave this keep out of their sights, especially given its state of low occupancy. It would just be a matter of time before they struck such a plum mark. These thieves were ghosts. They clearly had friends willing to shelter them. Otherwise Calder and his men would have found them. God knew they had tried.

  Even his home, which was more formidable and held far more occupants, was at risk. These brigands were bold and well numbered. He could only hope that tonight was not the night they planned to strike either place.

  He glanced in annoyance at the stairs. Hopefully Miss Ballister wasn’t packing anything more than a simple valise. He wasn’t hauling a trunk atop his horse.

  Finally, he heard the tread of steps. He turned to see Fenella lugging a bag and a book. Her gnarled hands patted at the worn leather skin of the tome she hugged close to her chest. “It’s right in ’ere,” she remarked, as though he’d asked.

  He eyed the book dubiously. “What’s that?”

  She leaned forward and whispered, “Magic.”

  He blinked, an uneasy feeling rippling over his skin. “Magic?”

  She nodded in satisfaction. “Aye, ’tis a recipe book that was given tae me many years ago by my cousin, Fergus.” Her eyes sparked.

  “It’s necessary tae bring your recipe book?”

  “Dinna ye ’ear me? There’s magic in these pages. One recipe in particular.” She tapped the well-worn leather. “This thing is worth more than gold. I canna leave it here for those scoundrels tae steal.” She stared at him in affront, as though he had suggested he leave her child behind. “As soon as we reach Glencrainn, I’ll whi
p up some of my special biscuits and we’ll fix ye right up and end this nonsense. One bite and ye’ll see that ye and the lass are perfect for each other.” She nodded in the direction of where Miss Ballister had once stood before the girl left.

  “Fenella.” He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Are you telling me this is a book of . . . spells?”

  “Bite yer tongue. I’m no witch.” She looked over her shoulder as though someone might be lurking about to hear such a dire allegation. “I’m merely a housekeeper who puts a little something extra special in ’er food.”

  “Special? As in . . . magic?” he clarified.

  “Indeed.”

  And she wouldn’t call that witchery? These brigands, the unexpected presence of the Ballister lass, and now this? His head was starting to throb. “Don’t tell me you think that book contains a recipe for . . .”

  She cackled and nodded in satisfaction. “’Tis no ordinary shortbread, to be certain. Love biscuits. Aye. That be a more correct description.”

  She. Was. Daft. He really should keep her away from the sharp cutlery.

  “I’m ready.”

  He looked up as Miss Ballister descended the stairs, her lofty English tones chafing his quickly fraying nerves.

  She was dressed in a deep blue wool riding habit with jeweled buttons down the bodice jacket. She wore matching gloves trimmed with fur at the wrists. Fine leather boots peeked out from beneath her hem. He was certain she was the height of fashion. He’d seen nothing of the like in these parts—nothing of such quality in any of the local villages or even when he visited Inverness. If the thieves spotted her in her finery they would unquestionably abduct her for a ransom. Better than death, he supposed.

  He looked away from her. She was dangerous. A title-hungry, marriage-minded English girl left without a chaperone in his company. She was a contagion he needed to avoid.

  He knew the Ballisters were obscenely rich, each daughter an heiress in her own right. He had made certain to learn all he could about the people who were to be his closest neighbors. Not that he had to probe too deeply. His barrister in Glasgow had answered all his inquiries. Evered Ballister made his wealth in railways and Mrs. Ballister was renowned through British society for her determination to see her daughters wed into the aristocracy.