Chapter Four
“Ye are the greatest feckin’ eejit that ever walked the Almighty’s blessed earth.”
A wet snowball splatted into the back of Duncan’s head, making him grit his teeth to keep from dismounting and thrashing his brother’s arse. “Get on yer horse, Malcolm. We are leaving.”
“Without so much as a proper farewell to yer lady?”
Duncan gripped the reins tighter, once again questioning his sanity for ever traveling with his perpetually jolly brother. “First, I possess no lady. Second, I told Lady Merry I would miss her. That was enough.”
“It is not enough. Not when ye behaved like an arrogant shite with no sense of manners one minute, then turned into an attentive gentleman the next. She probably thinks ye are an eejit too.” Malcolm galloped up beside him, flanking him on the left.
“’Tis as though ye had to stop yerself from drawing too close to that verra fine lady.
Are ye a coward, then? Afraid ye might impress her, or make her like ye? ”
“Haud yer wheesht, brother. I grow sick of yer nettling.” Duncan hated it when Malcolm was right, and he’d be damned if he let him know he’d hit the nail square on its head.
What good would there be in pursuing the lovely Lady Merry?
Once she knew him better, she would realize he was not the man she thought him to be.
Better to avoid the debacle entirely, even though he hated himself for it.
He was drawn to the lass. Very much so. Dangerously so. There was something about her that made his damaged spirit feel almost whole, and that terrified him more than anything. Why would he allow himself to draw close, only to be pushed away when she finally came to her senses?
“When will ye stop letting him beat ye down, Duncan? He is dead.”
Duncan spurred his mount into a gallop. He refused to have this discussion with Malcolm.
He welcomed the bite of the icy wind stinging his face and making his eyes water.
Aye, Father was dead, but the man’s ghost was alive and well and judging him at every turn.
The only reason he had still inherited the title was that it was beyond his father’s power to strip him of it and lay it upon Malcolm.
But that hadn’t stopped his father from bemoaning that fact at every opportunity.
Duncan urged Spartan to go faster, roaring his frustrations into the wind. His past and all that his father had beaten into him was his burden to bear. No one else’s. He would not be weak and share his pain.
“I shall tell Mother ye were rude to the lady!” Malcolm shouted as he caught up to him. “Ye will never hear the end of it, then.”
Ignoring his brother’s nattering, Duncan rode onward, giving Spartan his head. Nothing he could say would stop Malcolm from running to their parent and tattling like an overly pampered bairn. The annoying wee dolt had done it all his life, even though Mother had always scolded him for doing so.
Duncan allowed his mount to slow to a ground-eating trot. Blowing a hard snort that fogged in the air, Spartan tossed his head, lively and prancing in the cold weather the beast had always loved. “Aye, lad. Enjoy yerself. Life is short.”
“Ye should take yer own advice.”
Damned if Malcolm hadn’t already caught up with him again. Duncan growled. His feckin’ brother was worse than midges swarming his bollocks in the heat of summer. “Shut yer gob, Malcolm. We are done with this conversation, ye ken?”
After an astonishingly long moment of blessed silence, Duncan risked a glance over at his stubborn sibling. Malcolm was the picture of smugness, promising that once they arrived home, there would be no peace because the wee fool would run straight to Mother.
“Why are ye so determined to interfere?”
Malcolm jutted his chin higher. “Because that woman took a liking to ye, and ye felt the same toward her.”
“I pulled her from a carriage. Any honorable man would have done so.”
“And ye talked to her more than I have seen ye talk to much of anyone since Catherine died. Lady Merry drew ye out of yer shell until yer scairtness took over and ran ye back inside it like the coward ye’ve become.”
Duncan clenched his teeth so tightly his jaws ached. “Let it go, Malcolm. The cause is lost, and I am weary of yer trying to save me. Find yerself a wife and sire an heir to take the title once I am laid to rest. That is the only thing I need from ye—not this incessant meddling.”
“Meddling is good for the soul.”
“Then yer soul should be as braw and hearty as one of the saints’.”
“Mother wants grandchildren.”
“Then marry and give her some.” Duncan nudged Spartan to a faster trot, willing his brother to shut his gob.
“She wants grandchildren from the both of us. How many times has she said that?” Malcolm easily caught up, his mount just as frolicsome as Spartan.
“Again, I ask ye, why has this put such a burr in yer arse?” Duncan squinted at the sun reflecting off the brilliant whiteness of the snow. His head already pounded from lack of sleep. Malcolm’s nagging made it worse.
“Lady Merry is fearless. She can handle ye.”
“I dinna need to be handled.”
“Aye, ye do, brother,” Malcolm said with a grin. “In every sense of the word.”
Duncan scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “Can ye not grant me some peace, brother? At least for the rest of the ride home?”
Malcolm lifted his right hand, then placed it over his heart. “I’ll hold my tongue the rest of the way, but then…”
Aye, Duncan knew damn well what that meant.
*
Duncan took his time in the stable. Even though the lads always took the best care of Spartan, he found comfort in tending to his horse.
Of course, Malcolm had nearly broken his neck, rushing inside and making a beeline for Mother.
Well, the wee eejit could tattle as much as he bloody well pleased.
As a man grown and pushing hard against the ripe old age of five and thirty, Duncan no longer feared losing his mother’s approval.
He respected and loved her dearly, but didn’t live his life to impress her.
“Extra grain for ye,” he said to his horse while adding another bucketful to the trough. “Eat hearty, my friend. Ye did well, as always.”
The great black beast gave an affectionate grumble, then went back to munching his feed.
“Excuse me, my lord.”
Before turning to face the butler devoted to doing his mother’s bidding, Duncan blew out a heavy sigh. “Aye, Barclay? What is it?”
“Lady Kirkston has tea waiting in the parlor.”
“Does she now?” As the dowager marchioness, Mother ran the household with the precision of a battle-hardened general, and Duncan had learned long ago to choose his wars with her wisely.
It was just as well. Their housekeeper, Mrs. Barclay, had always worked well with Mother and was accustomed to how she wished things done. “I suppose she sent ye to fetch me?”
“Yes, my lord. She did.” The expressionless Barclay stood in the stable doorway, patiently waiting with the steadfastness of granite.
“Feckin’ hell,” Duncan muttered. He tossed the brush back into the rack and patted Spartan. “Pray for me, lad.”
The horse swished its tail and whickered, which Duncan took as condolences.
“I’ll have to go through the kitchens for a wash,” he told the butler. “She’s got a better nose than our best hounds.”
“I took the liberty of having Mr. Brown draw the water in the kitchen and bring down your soap. Her ladyship did not wish you to return to your chambers for a full change.”
“Aye, I know how she is about delaying her tea.” Mother wore the gold pocket watch he had gifted her upon his return from India—a purchase for her in which he had gravely erred.
She kept the thing pinned at her waist and marked time for everything and everyone in the household.
“I suppose Malcolm is with her as well.”
“Yes, my lord. Your brother has already joined her.”
“Of course he has.” Lengthening his stride, Duncan strode to the back of the house and entered through the door used by the servants. Might as well get on with it; dawdling only delayed the inevitable.
True to Barclay’s word, Duncan’s valet waited beside a basin with a fold of linen draped over his forearm.
Lifting a steaming kettle off its iron rod over the fire, he filled the large porcelain bowl, then stepped out of the way.
“The water is quite warm, my lord. Shall I add some cold from the pitcher?”
“I am sure it’s fine.” It always was. Brown had never scalded him yet.
Duncan scrubbed his hands, face, and neck with the transparent bar of Pears soap that smelled like an English garden and would hopefully wash away enough of the scent of travel to satisfy his mother’s nose.
After drying off, he raked his hair into some semblance of order, then turned for Brown to remedy the damage he had done to his neckerchief.
“I brought a clean cravat, should you wish to change, my lord.” The valet held up the freshly starched length of neckwear.
“No.” Duncan tossed the drying linen on the counter, then winked at the cook watching from her post at the worktable. “If Mother has nothing to gnash her teeth about, her day will be ruined, will it not, Mrs. Oxworthy?”
The jolly woman waved away his words with a hearty chuckle, then returned to kneading her dough. “Ye’ll not trick me into saying that, ye wee scamp.” She nodded at the tea cart already loaded and waiting by the door. “Ye best get a move on, my lord. ’Tis nearly past time.”
Deciding to give his mother something to fuss about straight away, Duncan pushed the tea cart out the door and down the hallway with Barclay and the footmen, Rob and Thomas, chasing after him.
“My lord! Please.” Rob raced past him and blocked the hallway with his lanky arms and legs outspread. “Her ladyship’ll skin us all,” he said in a panicked whisper. “Please.”