The MacGalloways: Books #1-3

Chapter 5

5

A fter dinner, Julia glared at herself in the mirror, furiously brushing out her shoulder-length locks. Though it was still unfashionably long, she’d had Willaby cut her hair to her shoulders to masquerade as a man. Of course, with this venture she’d given up her chances of ever finding a husband. She’d left her home and everything familiar.

But her woeful state of affairs wasn’t why she was taking out her ire on her tresses. Because of her situation, she was in a very precarious position and at all times she needed to exercise the utmost care to hide her gender. How could she have allowed herself to luxuriate in the bath when she knew dinner would soon be served?

For the love of God, Martin had walked in on her when she was submerged in a tub of water.

Not Martin! Never, ever think of the man’s given name again, blast you!

The accursed duke had walked into her chamber when she wore not a stitch of clothing. Moreover, he’d tried to make idle conversation while she was naked, obviously uncomfortable, and curled into a tight ball. It was a miracle he hadn’t realized she was a woman right then and there.

She stood back and tugged on her nightshirt, then slipped into her father’s old silk banyan and tied the sash. She must find a way to go about performing her duties without spending half her waking hours in His Grace’s presence. Perhaps when they returned to Newhailes she ought to suggest he take the family to Stack Castle.

Most likely, they did head north for the summer. From what Julia understood, the castle was on the shore overlooking the famous Stacks of Duncansby. The only problem was she needed to visit the old fortress as soon as possible as well. There had been some accounting questions she had with the distillery, and the crofter’s rents needed to be reviewed not to mention she truly ought to make an effort to meet them all.

Perhaps she ought to arrange a journey up there by herself while the family was still at Newhailes. She could inform Dunscaby hours before her departure, too late for him to change his schedule and accompany her. Yes, her plan would work. She’d spend a month at Stack, then return to Newhailes after the family moved north. Doubtless, the MacGalloways would go to London for the Season come autumn, especially since Lady Charity was on the marriage mart.

And if the Duchess had her way, her eldest son would take marriage seriously as well. Though Julia’s heart twisted at the thought of Martin courting a potential wife.

I cannot possibly care. He’s the dratted Duke of Dunscaby!

Regardless, if she played her cards right, Julia would be able to communicate with His Grace through correspondence for ages. Her responsibilities would be efficiently dispatched, and her secret kept under wraps.

Sighing loudly, she flopped onto the bed. Now all she needed was to undertake a bit of manly hunting in the morning, let the duke shoot to his delight, and they’d swiftly return to Newhailes where she’d immediately leave for John o’Groats the tiny northern village near Stack Castle.

And not a moment too soon.

When Dunscaby had caught her in the bath, Julia hadn’t merely been mortified. She smoothed her hand along her throat. Something in his gaze had made her insides stir like warm cream.

Mortified or not, she’d thought he might touch her when he dipped his fingers into the water. Worse, she’d wanted him to do so. Her entire body ached for his touch. Even a slight brush of his fingertip would have done.

Julia moaned at the thought, closing her eyes, and imagining Martin smoothing his big hands across her shoulders. Martin sliding his fingers into her hair. Martin’s lips caressing hers.

Gasping, she bolted upright.

No. No. No!

Awakened from a dead sleep, Martin’s eyes flashed open. “What the blazes?” He could have sworn he heard a woman scream. Stumbling out of bed, he wiped the sleep from his eyes.

The sound couldn’t have come from Mrs. MacIain. The couple slept in the chamber two floors below just off the kitchens. There was at least a hundred tons of stone between the upper rooms and the servant’s quarters.

I ken what I heard.

As the cobwebs of sleep cleared from his mind, there was naught to do but investigate. He pattered across the floor, took a twig from the wood pile, and lit it in the smoldering coals, then put the flame to a candle.

How the bloody hell had a woman managed to slip into the castle? No matter how much he tried to rationalize it, nothing made sense.

He’d left Smallwood to his own devices shortly after the evening meal, but even if the steward were a womanizer, they were twenty miles from the nearest village where one might find a willing female.

And Smallwood most definitely didn’t seem the type.

Unless some unsuspecting, terribly lost woman stumbled upon the lodge, which was more unlikely than the prospect of a pint-sized steward riding forty miles to fetch a damsel, bring her back to his bedchamber, and ravish her.

Martin grabbed the brass candlestick and marched along the corridor, this time knocking rather than pushing through the door. “Smallwood?”

“A moment,” the man said to the tune of rustling and what sounded like a chair scraping the floorboards.

Well, if the steward was indeed buggaring a woman, Martin would catch him in the bloody act. “What the blazes are you on about?” he bellowed, barging inside.

Standing beside the hearth with a burning twig in his hand, Jules gaped, his eyes round as shillings and filled with terror. “I-I b-beg your pardon?”

“I heard a woman scream.” Martin marched across the floor and threw back the bedclothes. “I swear I did.”

“I heard the scream as well, Your Grace.” The man’s voice warbled as if he were terrified out of his wits. “But it came from no woman.”

“Come again?”

“I admit, my voice tends to be a bit high-pitched when I’m frightened.”

“Wait a moment.” The coverlet slid from Martin’s grasp. “ You made that hideous noise?”

Smallwood raked a hand through his hair—hair that had no right to be shimmering in the goddamn firelight and then falling across a chocolatey brown eye. Damnation, the fellow was effeminate. “I haven’t suffered a night terror in some time,” he explained. “But one came on so violently, I’m afraid to admit that I’m still shaking.”

He was. The twig in his hand flickered through the air like a firefly. Well, Martin certainly was not going to give the namby-pamby a pat on the head and a comforting word. He thrust a fist onto his hip. “Good God, man, get ahold of yourself.”

“Forgive me. As I said, this sort of thing hasn’t happened since I was a g— uh —much younger. Not to worry.” Smallwood managed to steady his hand enough to light a candle. “I doubt it will happen again for years.”

Martin spied a flagon on the sideboard, then gestured to a chair. “Sit. I’ll pour you a drink to calm your nerves.”

“Allow me, I’m coming good. You mustn’t serve me with your own hand, sir.”

Martin pulled the stopper out of the flagon and waved it at the wee man. “Ballocks to that. Sit your arse in the chair whilst I pour.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ye ken what you need, Smallwood?”

“Aside from a good night’s sleep?” asked the wee steward, crossing his arms and ankles and looking quite out of sorts.

“A bloody woman.” Martin couldn’t believe those words just spewed from his mouth given he’d suspected the fellow of inappropriate ravaging. But damn it all, what Smallwood needed was appropriate swiving with a willing partner.

The man sputtered. “I beg your pardon, but I disagree. A woman would provide too much of a distraction.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Martin poured two glasses and handed one to Smallwood. “But I sense you’re bloody tense. I tend to relax when I visit the Lodge, but you, on the other hand, seem to be strung tighter than a harp string.”

“Forgive me. I suppose I’m worried.”

“About?”

“Well, I would have liked to have had a few more weeks to work through the ledgers at Newhailes. And I do need to pay a visit to the distillery and the crofters up north sooner than later. Perhaps accompanying you on this diversion has made me feel as if I’m shirking my duties.”

“First of all, you’re not shirking.” Martin slid into the chair opposite. “I required your companionship. Most of my friends are still in London for the Season. My brothers are off at school or sailing the high seas. Quite frankly, you were the most accessible traveling companion.”

The steward sipped his whisky, not blinking or coughing this time. “Well, then, I must say it is an honor to be included in your company.”

“That’s better.” Martin took a long drink, savoring the fire as it seared his throat. “I find I quite enjoy your company as well.”

Smallwood’s eyebrows arched—they, too, were delicate, just like the man. “Why is that, sir?”

“Och, you’re not full of bravado for one thing. You also dunna seem to be afraid to tell me your mind.” Martin pondered as he fetched the flagon to pour another round. “Interestingly, there are certain circumstances when you come off as a bit unschooled and timid, and other times when you are more straightforward than any man I ken.”

Jules tugged the sash of his banyan. “When it comes to matters regarding the estate, I feel I am qualified to advise you. Otherwise, it is best for me to practice restraint with my opinions.”

“Hmm. But when it comes to matters of the world I suspect you are duly inexperienced. Pray, how long were you in Brixham’s employ?”

“Five years, sir.”

“And during that time did you travel with him? Visit his rooms in London, perchance?”

“Brixham treated me more like a servant than a gentleman of the working class as you do. He preferred me to remain out of sight and rarely ever took my advice, thus he spent and spent…” Smallwood let out a breath. “Forgive me, it seems whisky makes me wag my tongue overmuch.”

“Aye, I suppose it does affect many men that way.” After depositing his glass on the table, Martin stood. “I’ll leave you now. We both need a good night’s rest and neither of us will receive it if we continue to talk about irresponsible fops like the Earl of Brixham.”

Before he left, Martin could have sworn Smallwood cringed. Poor fellow. Working for the earl must have been nothing short of miserable.