Page 24 of Elizabeth in Scotland (Elizabeth and Darcy Abroad #2)

Darcy coughed and looked away, suspecting that his cheeks were flushed with embarrassment as much as from his recent dip in chilly Loch Ness.

He had been clever enough to figure out the riddle, but not enough to realise he had not had to jump in the loch to fetch it.

He shook his head and forced himself to chuckle at his own dim-wittedness.

“You will think me very foolish indeed, but I confess I walked up and down that dock several times — even looked through the boat and tackle to see if you had hidden the key there — and never once thought about using the fishing pole to get the chest out of the water. A blunder indeed!”

“You have only worked a little harder than I intended for your success. I see nothing amiss in that,” Mr Campbell assured him with a chuckle.

As they neared the house, Mr Campbell slowed.

“Perhaps you will allow me to share a confidence with you, for the thought has been weighing on my mind. I should very much like to share it.”

“Please do,” Darcy agreed readily, wondering what he might say.

“Thank you.” Mr Campbell hesitated a moment before going on.

“Well, then. Mr Darcy, I wished to say only that it has been a great relief to me that the new owner will be yourself or Mr Bennet, for knowing that these lands must pass into the hands of an Englishman weighed heavily on my heart. Now at least I need have no concern that Strathalt House will be handled carefully and well. You are both good men, both deserving. I know that whoever inherits will be good to the tenants.”

“That is a very high compliment, Mr Campbell. I thank you,” Darcy replied, deeply moved by the man’s praise.

“Well, I must get the horse back to the stable and deliver the packages from the dressmaker,” Mr Campbell said and started leading the horse away.

“I shall be up to the house shortly to announce you the winner of the second riddle and give the final riddle. I will also have one of the footmen come down and retrieve your wet clothes from the shore.”

“Thank you,” Darcy replied, raising his hand in parting. He continued toward the house on his own. The kilt felt strange but not uncomfortable.

As they had done more and more often of late, his thoughts wandered toward Elizabeth. Would she be disappointed that he had solved the second riddle? He could not blame her if it were so — not knowing how much Strathalt House might mean for the Bennet’s future.

Poor Georgiana. Her position was a difficult one, for she had already come to care deeply for Elizabeth, even to depend on her as she would a beloved older sister.

It would be dreadful indeed if such a source of support and companionship were lost. Yet perhaps it must be so, for in the end, one must win, and one must lose.

How could Elizabeth help resenting Georgiana, if her brother gained the inheritance that might have been such a material relief to her sisters and herself?

At that thought, Darcy shook his head. He half-thought he would rather lose the final challenge and the inheritance with it if it would save the budding friendship between his sister and Elizabeth. That was madness, surely, and yet the thought was inescapable.

And she would be safe. You would not have to fear for her after Mr Bennet’s death, knowing that she might rely on Strathalt House.

Darcy reproved himself for the errant thought.

Surely it was not his place to think about what she might do.

As he was then nearly back at the house, Darcy slowed his pace, stalling far enough away that no one would see him.

His kilt and shirt were damp from changing out of his wet clothes and having no towel available to dry his body first. His hair was still dripping onto his shirt and wetting his back.

He must have looked like a drowned rat by now.

He had much rather not be seen by anyone in such a state, for it was almost more than dignity could bear.

How his father would have hated to see him so. He hardly knew what he would have hated more — his dripping wet hair, or the kilt he wore. Neither fitted the image of the perfect son and heir to Pemberley.

If his late father had a besetting sin at all, it was surely that of pride.

Of course, he had a right to be proud, for to all the power and glory of Pemberley and the Darcy name, his father had added wisdom, generosity, responsibility.

His judgement had scarcely ever erred, except in the question of how far one George Wickham ought to be trusted.

Surely that meant that if Darcy was contemplating going against his father’s instructions, he was contemplating folly.

His own imperfect judgement ought not, could not be substituted for that of the late Mr Darcy.

His thoughts warred within him, and he was transported to a memory of himself as a boy, standing in front of his father’s great mahogany desk in the study.

“Your one calling in this life, Fitzwilliam, is to increase your family’s holdings and protect our name.

Your great-great-grandfather from the time of the Norman invasion was able to raise himself from a humble knight to a landed gentleman.

He built this house and estate up from the ground, and it has taken countless generations of hard work to make it what it is today.

” His father had got up from the chair behind his desk and paced near the hearth, fixing him with his eyes as though willing his young son to understand the importance of his lecture.

“It is up to you to continue that legacy. That is why I am so hard on you at times. It is all for the betterment of the family. Do you understand?”

Darcy had only been eight when he had first heard the speech.

And it had been drummed into him ever since, until the day of his father’s passing.

Bettering the family did not include marrying below his station, certainly not a woman with no dowry or connections.

His father would not have accepted alternative inducements, not even that Elizabeth was intelligent and compassionate, that she cared about Georgiana as she would one of her sisters, that she had the most mesmerising eyes he had ever seen…

Elizabeth was unlike any woman he had ever met.

She was unassuming and kind, but spoke her mind with an intelligence and prowess that he could only call thrilling.

But what did any of that matter if he won the wager and inherited Strathalt House?

Surely the loser could not help but resent the winner.

Restlessly, Darcy stood up and strode towards the house. He knew he should not think of Elizabeth at all, and yet, he could not help himself. He sighed and raked a hand through his damp hair.

Startled by a sudden gasp, Darcy stopped dead in his tracks. As though his thoughts had conjured her, she was there, standing at the bend of the path where it curved around a thicket of bushes, and staring at him as though — well. As though he were soaking wet and wearing a kilt, of all things.

Elizabeth!