The MacGalloways: Books #1-3

Chapter 4

4

E n route to the Dunscaby hunting lodge.

For the second day, Julia sat astride a horse, trying to move her icy toes in her new, better-fitting and more fashionable boots while her gloved fingers gripped the reins, her breath billowing from her nose as if a dragon’s fire smoldered in her lungs. “I see why Highlanders are renowned for being hearty characters.”

Over his shoulder, Dunscaby gave her a quizzical look, his eyes even more stunning in the sunlight. “Why is that?”

“It takes a bit of grit to ride into the mountains in winter. Wasn’t it during the Jacobite risings when the English had difficulty pursing the rebels?”

“Aye, and not long after the crown built roads and bridges. You may think this is rough going, but the journey has markedly improved in the past hundred years.”

“Well then, I’m glad to be living in the nineteenth century.”

“Come, Smallwood. Dunna tell me ye have no adventurous spirit.”

“’Tis not the adventure I mind. But I was raised in the South of England. Flat country mind you—rolling hills and whatnot.”

“Well, then, I reckon you’re in for an adventure you’ll never forget.”

Julia couldn’t agree more—though her agreement had nothing to do with the man’s remarks. During this jaunt, she’d already realized how ill thought-out her ruse had been. She hadn’t considered the complexities of traveling with the duke, nor had she ever envisaged His Grace would bother traveling with her. Things as simple as relieving oneself had grown entirely complicated.

And Dunscaby seemed not to have inherited the tiniest bit of bashfulness, opening the falls of his buckskins right on the trail and…

Lord have mercy.

She’d tried not to look, she truly had.

Well, Julia thanked the stars he didn’t wear a kilt when riding. Heaven only knew how mortifying that would have been to her sensibilities. Dukes were supposed to be aloof and pompous and absorbed in their pursuits, which didn’t include taking an active role in managing their estates. Which is precisely why they needed stewards and dozens of servants to cater to their every whim. For heaven’s sake, Dunscaby hadn’t even brought his valet along on this outing. What the devil was he thinking?

Julia grumbled under her breath. Blast her St. Vincent luck, she’d earned a position with a positively, overly independent duke. Goodness, her father was an earl, and Papa had never taken more than a cursory interest in running Huntly Manor. Though after Julia’s mother died, her father had preferred to stay in London where he gambled away his fortune until he succumbed to biliousness. Now the estate was in ruins. Papa had become an invalid, leaving Julia with no choice but to gallivant about the Highlands of Scotland, doing her best to hold things together.

Slowing the horses, Dunscaby pointed up the hill. “You can see her turrets from here.”

Julia craned her neck. Sure enough, two conical towers peeked above the trees just as they might have done in the Middle Ages. “Who knew one would find a castle all the way up here?”

“Och, we’ve hardly climbed into the mountains. Beyond the lodge’s gates is where the real hunting lies.”

“Fascinating,” she said, genuinely amazed, but barely able to believe they would be venturing farther into the wild the following day.

It took another quarter of an hour to ride up the steep slope. “The two towers of the castle were built by my ancestor during the Scottish Wars of Independence—Robert the Bruce’s era, ye ken. Up here my kin were safe from the English. Moreover, it was an ideal location from which to stage many a raid.”

Now that the ground had evened out, Julia had a much better view as they rode toward the lodge. The turrets flanked a keep with three stories. The entry was hidden by a recessed archway with a lamp swinging from medieval iron grillwork which appeared to be original.

“I loved this place when I was a lad,” Dunscaby continued. “Played King Arthur with my brothers—especially Gibb. He and I dreamed of becoming knights whilst we learned to spar with wooden wasters.”

“Lord Gibb,” Julia recalled. “You mentioned he’s an officer in the Royal Navy.”

“Aye, a commander, champing at the bit for his first captain’s commission.”

“Oh my, a captain? Wouldn’t he be rather young for such a post?”

His Grace grinned, his crossed incisors making him appear a tad devilish. “You forget, he’s the son of a duke.”

“Ah, yes. Such a lofty birthright does open doors.”

“That sounds rather cynical, but you, sir, are a gentleman. Surely you’ve enjoyed privileges of the gentry.”

“I suppose.” Oh, the arguments rifling through Julia’s mind. It was wonderful to be well-bred and wealthy. It was also quite the boon to be well-bred and male. However, being well-bred, penniless, and female had its extreme disadvantages.

After they dismounted, Dunscaby pounded on the enormous oaken doors, studded with blackened iron nails.

Julia looked upward, expecting to see the teeth of a portcullis staring down at her. Though the tracks for such a gate were in place, the sharp iron spikes were gone. Her gaze trailed to a foot-wide circle a different color than the other masonry. “I see you’ve filled in the kill hole.”

“Aye, my grandfather decided it was no longer hospitable to pour boiling oil on the heads of marauding guests.”

Julia chuckled as the door opened. The stunned face of an older gentleman gaped at them. “M’lord…er…beg your pardon, Your Grace ? This is quite a surprise.”

“Is it?” asked Dunscaby. “I sent word.”

The man scratched his bald head as he stepped aside. “We havena had a missive delivered since receiving the news of your father’s passing.”

“Unfortunate. Nonetheless, I suppose it seems we’ve arrived.” The duke gestured toward Julia. “This is my steward, Mr. Smallwood.” His hand swung toward the caretaker. “Mr. MacIain.”

She exchanged a cordial nod with the chap before turning her attention to the array of deer heads on the wall, flanked by medieval pikes, axes, several pieces of armor, and blackened iron wall sconces. The previous dukes may have filled in kill holes and removed a rusted portcullis, but Julia imagined there hadn’t been a great many changes made to the hunting lodge over the years. Despite the cold, she already loved it here. No wonder His Grace had such fond childhood memories of it.

“Show him to the summer bedchamber,” said Dunscaby. “And there’s no need to fret. We willna eat much and, with luck, on the morrow there’ll be venison hanging in the cold room.”

Mr. MacIain bowed. “Verra well, Your Grace.”

Dunscaby headed toward a wheeled stairwell. “We’ve both been freezing our ballocks, riding through snow for the past two days. Each of us will need hot baths and something warm for the evening meal including soup if you have it.” He disappeared, his voice echoing. “And fresh bread. I’m certain Mrs. MacIain has a loaf or two to spare.”

“Bloody hell,” the man mumbled under his voice.

“I’m so sorry for the inconvenience,” Julia whispered still trying to recover from the duke’s comment about her absent testicles. “His Grace did write ahead.”

“’Tis the master’s lodge. Should he arrive in the dead of night, we’ve naught but to smile and bring out the silver.” The caretaker beckoned her toward the same stairwell where Dunscaby had disappeared. “Follow me.”

Julia gripped the handle of her valise and climbed the winding stairs, her footsteps echoing loudly as if announcing she was going back in time and soon would be joining the Scottish army as they raided an English garrison at Stirling Castle. No wonder the duke and his brother imagined they were knights when they visited this place. Even the air felt so very archaic.

After leading her through a stone corridor lined with faded tapestries, Mr. MacIain opened a door, the hinges screeching. “Per His Grace’s request, this will be your bedchamber. There ought to be some flax tow and wood by the hearth. If you’ll excuse me, there is much to be done.”

“Thank you.” Julia expected the room to be yellow, or perhaps green, but the walls were lined with tapestries and the plaster ceiling striped with wooden rafters. “Can you tell me why they call this the summer bedchamber?”

“It faces west. When the sun’s shining in summer, ’tis overwarm in here.”

As the door closed, Julia set down her bag and rubbed her arms. If only the chamber had a modicum of warmth now, but presently she could see her breath. She hastened to the hearth and set to lighting the fire, elated when the flax tow ignited. With ever so much care, she blew on the little bundle and watched the flame build as she added twigs. Once it had grown strong enough, she put on a sizeable piece of wood. Rocking back onto her haunches, she removed her fur-lined gloves and stretched her hands toward the fire.

If only she could continue to warm herself beside this hearth and read or embroider while the duke was out finding his stag come morning. Although stewards read, they most certainly did not embroider. No matter what Julia might want to do, on the morrow, she would be off on a shooting expedition.

The problem? Her father had never bothered to take her hunting or shown her how to shoot a musket for that matter. In truth, her nurturing had ended at the age of twelve when her mother succumbed to consumption.

Bless her soul.

Standing before a raging fire, Martin stretched and ruffled his fingers through his wet hair. It felt reviving to be clean and warm. There was nothing as soothing as a steamy bath to thaw one’s bones after a long winter’s ride.

Even still, his melancholy had shed from his shoulders as soon as they’d set out from Newhailes. So many things had weighed heavily on his spirits, beginning with his father’s fatal bout of dropsy, followed by the rush home, the funeral, the seemingly endless days of mourning. On top of that, being informed by Mr. MacCutcheon that the business dealings of estate had been neglected for the better part of three years hadn’t helped matters.

No wonder Martin had suffered a spell of self-doubt.

Well, no more. Of all his estates, the lodge provided a capital escape and it was exactly what he needed to reestablish his priorities. Da wouldn’t want him to drop into melancholy, nor his mother and siblings for that matter. It was time to start anew. Besides, it was almost spring. A season of fresh beginnings.

And now that Smallwood had been hired, the business side of his inheritance was in good hands. In fact, when Martin returned to Newhailes, he’d tell his mother to begin her plans for his sister Charity to embark upon a fabulous London Season—one that would make up for this year. Andrew and Philip would be home from university soon, and Martin needed to put his head together with Smallwood about coming up with a plan to see them well-placed. Of course, Martin missed Gibb the most, and the commander presently posed the greatest worry. His closest brother had chosen a life at sea at a time when Britain seemed to be at war on all sides. However, barring his ship sinking, Gibb was man enough to handle himself.

Martin checked his pocket watch. Nearly time for the evening meal, he ran a comb through his hair and headed for the summer bedchamber.

Not bothering to knock, he pushed open the door, finding Smallwood sitting in a tub of water up to his neck.

“Aaaaaaah!” the man squawked like a hen, sat forward, and wrapped his arms around his knees. “Do you not know how to knock…ah…Your Grace?”

“Bloody hell,” Martin said, sauntering inside. “’Tis nearly time to eat. And here you are languishing in a bloody bath.”

Smallwood’s gaze shifted to the top of Martin’s head, his hair still damp. “Did you not linger in your tub? Did you not enjoy the warm water helping you feel your toes once again? Besides, I’ll wager Mr. MacIain brought your water first.”

Martin slid into the chair by the hearth, his mouth suddenly dry. Good God, Smallwood had slender shoulders as well as an inordinately long neck. The man’s skin was lily white, oddly making Martin think of tracing finger along the arc where the fellow’s neck met his shoulder to see if it was actually as soft as it appeared. Instead, he clenched his fist and growled. “I shall grant you quarter on that count, but it doesna allay the fact that ’tis time to go below stairs and eat. I’m bloody starved. And by the looks of your bones, you could do with a month of hearty meals.”

The steward leaned his chin atop his knees. “Come to think of it, I am rather famished.”

“Och, is the water too hot?” Martin dunked his fingers. “The back of your neck has turned scarlet.”

“No—ah—I’m fine—I mean, I am well.” Smallwood peered out the corner of his eye like a nervous finch. “’Tis just I’m not accustomed to having my employer pay a visit whilst I’m bathing.”

“Come now, we’re both men.”

“That may very well be but?—”

“Never ye mind.” Martin sat back, spread his knees, and adjusted his loins, the touch causing a zing of arousal. He quickly moved his hand to the armrest. Devil take it, there wasn’t an unmarried female within a day’s riding.

“I’ve never met a man as bashful as you,” Martin grumbled. Nor as delicate . Hell, the wee man either had a bladder the size of a gallon cask or he was the most bashful fellow in all of Britain. Mayhap he’s embarrassed about the size of his wares. “’Tis obvious you had no brothers to contend with when growing up. I suppose there’ll be no changing you now.”

“I-I suppose not.”

Stretching out his legs, Martin crossed his ankles. “Have you given any thought to establishing a business venture on behalf of my brothers?”

“Um…I have…” Smallwood curled deeper into the tub. “Cotton.”

“Just cotton?” Martin asked, his gaze again slipping to the man’s shoulder—gently curved, oddly fascinating.

“Not just cotton, but the industry has grown, increasing shipments from the Americas by twelve hundred percent. Why not ship MacGalloway whisky to America and return with cotton?”

Standing, Martin swiped a hand across his eyes, his mind cogitating on what he’d just heard. “Good Lord, I kent the industry had grown, but I didna realize it has exploded.” Still, there were many reasons to be skeptical. “I’m not convinced. Ye ken as the Duke of Dunscaby, I must remind you that only four years past King George signed the Slave Trade Act. Not only as a high-ranking member of the House of Lords, I personally canna support an industry and profit either directly or indirectly off the backs of the enslaved.”

“Though I’d much prefer to have this conversation after my bath, I must advise that we are of like minds, sir. Before I presented you with the idea, I wanted confirmation from a Mr. O’Brian, who recently wrote a letter to the Gazette about Irish sharecroppers in America joining together to produce cotton by the fruits of their own labor.”

Suddenly, Smallwood’s shoulders didn’t look so bloody weak. “Irishmen, you say? But can they compete with the yields from large plantations?”

“That is exactly why I wrote to Mr. O’Brian first. However, since you brought it up, I must say his letter to the editor states that the coalition can compete, though evidently the plantation owners are trying to shoulder them out. Which is why?—”

“They need a sole customer who can quietly acquire the entirety of their harvests.”

“Exactly.”

Martin kicked his heels and danced a jig. “Bloody brilliant! Gibb could sail to and fro, expanding my whisky venture whilst we’re establishing ourselves in cotton. The twins could take orders, outfit a mill with looms and the like, and with the dukedom behind it, the lads would soon gain a reputation of making the finest muslin cloth in Europe.”

“Look there, Duke, a kernel of an idea and you already have a mind to build an empire.” The water trickled. “Perhaps we can discuss it more after I dress. Then I’ll join you in the dining hall.”

“Verra well. Ten minutes.” Martin headed for the door. “I’ll meet you anon.”