Chapter 9 #2
A slow rumble fell from his lips that turned into something much louder. One minute they were discussing death, and the next they were laughing about a situation that lacked all humor.
When their laughter died and they remained in the small room alone, he said, “You left Scotland as a childless widow, and in less than two months, you have three children. That can be overwhelming for a couple, let alone a woman by herself. Marry me.”
Her smile disappeared. “Do you plan to ask every Blair sister to marry you, or do you just like to wed damsels in distress?”
“I proposed to your sister because she saved my life.”
“Is that why you’re proposing to me?”
“It’s true that you saved my life, and I am extremely grateful, but no, that’s not the reason.”
“Then why?”
“We’re good together.”
She looked at him in disbelief. “We’re horrible together.”
“We are not.”
“We are, too.”
“We’re not,” he growled.
“See. You’re angry.” The smugness she displayed was grating.
“I’m not angry.”
“Then why is your face all scrunched up?” She made a ridiculous impression of his expression.
“That is not what I’m doing.”
“That’s exactly what you were doing.”
“You two sound like children,” her sister Ailsa said as she walked into the room and stared at his bare feet. Then her gaze took in his missing neck cloth, waistcoat, and jacket. It was as if she were seeing a naked man standing before her.
Caillen grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her back toward the door. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“What is she doing in my house?” He asked while grabbing his waistcoat.
“He’s naked!” Ailsa screeched.
Simon winced at the noise. “I’m not naked.”
“Naked!” Charlotte yammered.
“He’s not naked,” Caillen said at the same time.
He had been naked, two hours ago.
“Then how could I see his neck and toes?”
“I’m not naked now,” he qualified as he pulled on his coat. “Bloody hell, that hurts.”
“You’re cursing isn’t helping matters,” Caillen snapped.
“It’s not proper to talk like that in front of a lady, Astley.” Ailsa lectured with one hip jutting out. Her Nordic blond hair was piled upon the top of her head in an elaborate style, and she wore a pale blue gown of the latest fashion, unlike Caillen’s gown.
“Are you my governess?” His sarcasm was getting the best of him.
“She is acting as governess to the girls and Sébastien.”
“Blast. That’s all I need. Another potential victim wandering around in my house. Ailsa’s the children’s tutor?”
“At short notice, yes. She is the best I could find,” Caillen stated.
Ailsa’s back straightened as she turned toward her sister, who still blocked her view of him tying his cravat. “That’s hardly a glowing recommendation.”
“You haven’t been doing the job but a minute,” Caillen said.
“If you spent an hour with those three, you’d know I’m bloody good at my job.”
“Ailsa!” They said in unison.
He caught the grin on Caillen’s face before she hid it.
“You two are like mother and father.”
Caillen turned to her sister with the most horrified expression he’d ever seen on her face. With everything she had been through, he didn’t take that as a good sign.
“Don’t say that!” She exclaimed.
“Why not?”
Caillen turned Ailsa back toward the door. “Because it’s not true.”
“But it is.”
She shot back. “Our parents never argued.”
“Where do you think we learned to debate?” Ailsa asked.
“I knew it!” He interjected.
She turned on him. “You knew what?”
“I knew it had nothing to do with me and everything to do with you.” He couldn’t stop the smile from growing on his face. When a person won an argument with Caillen, it was time to celebrate.
“This has everything to do with you,” she accused.
“She’s right.” Ailsa shrugged.
“But you just said—”
“It takes two to create an argument,” the sisters said in unison and then grinned at each other.
“Apparently it takes one man to lose an argument,” he grumbled.
“That’s exactly what—” Ailsa started.
“Don’t say it,” Caillen threatened.
“—father used to say.”
He grinned. He knew there was a reason why he liked her sisters.
Caillen looked up at the ceiling and then turned on him. “I suppose you’re going to propose to her next.”
“Ewww.” Ailsa’s lip curled.
“Ewww? Since when do I draw an ewww from the mouth of a debutante, or any lady for that matter?”
“No offense.” Ailsa shrugged again.
“Some taken.”
“It’s just that you’re…old.”
He froze as he was putting on his stockings. “Old?”
Caillen laughed.
He turned on her. “I would enjoy your laughter if I wasn’t so old. I’ll have you know, I’m the same age as Ross.”
“You’re that old! I retract my previous statement. You and Caillen are not well suited, at all.” She said it as if she were driving a nail in his coffin for each word.
“I will not be proposing to Ailsa,” he said with certainty.
Ailsa let out a huge breath. “That’s a relief.”
“However, I make no promises about killing her.”
Caillen grinned. “Then Ross would have to kill you.”
He rubbed his jaw as if contemplating his decision. “I suppose that could be a deterrent.”
“Cor, they’re a bloody-thirsty lot,” said two more sisters who were standing in the doorway.
Sébastien peeked over their heads. “And they say we French are savage.”
“Ye know ye are.” Millie, at least he thought it was Millie, looked over her shoulder at Sébastien.
“Not any more than you uncivilized English.” Sébastien scrunched his nose and glared.
“We be half Scottish.” Lillie added.
“That’s even worse, the Scots are barbarians,” Sébastien argued.
“Sébastien!” He called.
“Girls!” Caillen admonished.
“Blast.” Sébastien cursed.
He had no one to blame but himself for his son’s improper language.
“Bugger,” said the girls.
Ailsa laughed and then froze.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever visited a more unruly household in my entire career.”
The children in the doorway tilted their heads back and nearly fell over in a heap as they gaped at Sir Williamson standing above them.
Standing six and a half foot tall, the gentleman exemplified his Danish heritage in size and his cool visage.
He was immaculately dressed in a conservative black and grey suit with a crisply ironed white shirt and black cravat.
He studied the room with expressionless ice blue eyes while sporting not a blond hair out of place.
His manner was as cold as the day Simon had met him, and the children immediately backed out of his way, scurrying underneath his top hat that dangled in his right hand along with a large leather tome, and a folded newspaper that was stuck neatly under the same arm.
Ailsa’s mouth hung open as she gazed up at the man, while Caillen tucked her sister behind her as if she needed to protect her from the giant.
In the best of circumstances, Sir Williamson was imposing.
When a man was at his weakest, it was a blight on his ego to watch the women in the room examine Williamson so intensely.
“It seems my bedchamber has turned into a drawing room.” Simon said with irritation lacing every word as he grabbed his crutch.
“The last time I was here, this was a drawing room.”
“We’ve had to do a bit of remodeling, which has caused me to move my bedchamber from the upper floors.”
“So I’ve heard.” He dropped the latest edition of The Whispers of the Ton scandal rag on the table, and he and Caillen leaned over to read the headline, while Ailsa could do nothing but ogle the man in front of her.
“Bloody hell,” he said.
“Yes, it seems you’re rubbish at keeping a low profile, and very familiar with the fires of hell.” Sir Williamson’s tone held a bit too much sardonic amusement.
Whatever business Caillen’s father had been involved in, it had gotten him killed.
It had gotten Simon kidnapped, and tortured, and well on his way to his grave.
He wasn’t certain how he had cheated his demise in France, or England and he couldn’t take a chance on Caillen or any of the children getting caught up in this web of deceit and death.
He watched Caillen devour the image as if it were a sugared biscuit. Her eyes raced across the paper in stunned silence as she took in every detail of the scandalous image. He would be damned if she would experience any more gossip or heartbreak because of him.