Page 16 of Highland Fire

“I presume that my family is represented here?”

“You presume correctly.”

Something in her tone registered a discordant note. He was holding a leather-bound volume in his hand, but he was looking at her. “Is Mr. Randal harmless?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Some families, some individuals,” he amended, “might not take kindly to finding themselves in the pages of an unauthorized history.”

“Such as yourself, for instance?” The words were not meant to be friendly, but even she was dismayed at the blatant challenge they conveyed.

Before she could think of a way of softening them, he was edging one hip on to the table, leaning toward her with his arms negligently folded across his chest. She had to tip back her head to look up at him.

“What is it you think you know about me?” he asked.

For a moment, instinct held her silent. She was not quite sure that she trusted that cordial smile or the irrepressible twinkle that had leapt to life in his eyes. His next words reassured her.

“Look, there is something on your mind, and I would like to know what it is. I promise, I won’t eat you.”

For one moment more, she hesitated, then plunged into speech.

There was no thought in her mind of castigating as if he were some guilty schoolboy.

She meant to plead the cause of the tenants who had been cleared from their homes.

The Randal had given her the perfect opening, and conscience compelled her to act, however reluctantly.

She began diffidently, but when he made no effort to help her, simply stared unblinkingly like a sphinx cast in stone, the words of supplication became more impassioned.

To her ears, she was pleading for clemency for a group of people who had no means of seeking recourse for the wrongs done to them.

To Rand’s ears, she was lecturing him on his want of scruples.

In smiling, noncommittal silence, he listened as the husky tones made a long and extensive catalog of his failings.

It seemed that every tenant who had been given notice to quit his lands—and he knew for a fact no more than a dozen families were involved—was a personal friend of this irate lady.

She spoke of suffering and deprivation on a scale that equaled the Duke of Cumberland’s barbarity in the aftermath of Culloden.

There was something in what she said, and if she had approached him in a more conciliatory manner, so Rand told himself, he might have revealed that he intended to redress any wrongs that had been done by his overzealous factor. Already, a beginning had been made.

What he would not tolerate was this blatant meddling in things which did not concern her. This hot-at-hand little spitfire was begging for a trimming, and he was just the one to administer it.

When she had run out of words, there was long pause. They stared at each other, she boldly, he cold-eyed. Caitlin was the first to look away.

He edged from the table and began to prowl around the room. Caitlin was holding herself in readiness, waiting for the storm to break. When it came, it wasn’t the hurricane she had anticipated, but the chilling breath of a temperature suddenly turned frigid.

“I don’t know where you learned your hurly-burly manners, nor do I care. Like the rest of you, they could stand to be improved. I see no reason why I should defend myself to the likes of you. What are you, a secretary? A governess?”

Though it was not easy, she managed to match his insolent tone. “Does it matter? It can make no difference to you.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then said pleasantly, “Insubordination in an employee is usually rewarded by termination of said employee’s services.”

“And you, I presume, would have no compunction about lodging a complaint with my employer?”

“None whatsoever,” he agreed affably.

Her smile was tight. “I am not an employee.”

Slowly his eyes traversed her from the top of her smoothly coifed head to the toes of the little scuffed half-boots which peeped from beneath the hem of her gown.

The pulse in her throat quickened to life, and she shifted uneasily beneath his stare.

As if he held a mirror before her, she was blindingly conscious of every defect.

Her complexion was too pale. Her eyes were too wide apart.

Her gown was shabby and in urgent want of a press.

Heat stole across her cheekbones, but in spite of her discomfort, she continued to stare doggedly into his face.

She knew what he was thinking. It was sheer bravado that forced the words past her lips. “The dowd and the dandy. How do you do, Lord Randal?” and she bobbed him an impertinent curtsy.

“Who are you?” he asked abruptly.

Smiling, she answered, “The poor relation. But you already worked that out, did you not?”

His nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed.

After an interval, he inclined his head gravely.

“I’m familiar with the breed. In my experience they are generally harmless, self-effacing creatures who earn their keep by making themselves useful.

Once in a while, one comes across a tyrant, someone who is too big for her own boots, someone who has an exalted view of herself and her position.

It happens in the best of families. Guilt is the currency of exchange in these situations—you know what I mean.

Everyone is made to feel responsible for the misfortunes of poor Cousin Mary.

And Cousin Mary trades on that guilt, I won’t call it sympathy, because no one can sympathize with an ill-bred, farouche termagant who thinks herself above common decency.

It’s a grave mistake to indulge such a one, for she becomes insufferable, incorrigible and a bane to those of us who follow the rules of polite usage in society.

If truth were told, everyone is probably wishing Cousin Mary at Jericho. ”

Not once during this long diatribe had he raised his voice. Caitlin was used to Glenshiel’s ranting and raving. Lord Randal’s softly spoken words carried a sting that far exceeded the pinpricks her grandfather had inflicted. Fortunately, she had a thick skin.

She found herself swallowing, but would not allow that his spite had hurt her, nor that it had been deserved.

Someone had to stand up to the Randal and point out his obligations to his people.

She might have known that so great a personage as a baron would not permit lesser mortals to challenge his iniquitous policies without some form of retaliation.

His perambulations had taken him full circle. In pent-up silence, she watched as he languidly propped himself against the table. His gaze was steady on hers. The icy crystals in his eyes gradually dissolved, and his lips quirked. “That’s better,” he said. “I think there may be hope for you yet.”

It was the smile that goaded her beyond endurance. When she opened her mouth to answer him, he quickly interposed, “For God’s sake don’t say another word! I have no wish to annihilate you, but if you go on like this, you leave me no choice.”

The sounds of feminine voices reached them, then doors slamming and Lord Randal’s name called out in greeting. A moment later, the door opened to admit Charlotte Randal.

“Lord Randal, what on earth are you doing here?” Charlotte’s eyes glittered with hostility as they came to rest on Caitlin.

Rand smiled in that easy way of his that Caitlin was heartily coming to detest, and he straightened, moving away from the table.

“As to that, ma’am, I mistook this room for the library.

No need to apologize for the delay. Mr. Randal’s assistant kept me entertained.

Do you know, it has just occurred to me that we have not been properly introduced?

” The sleek, blond head was bent over Charlotte’s hand, and her eyes softened at the graciousness of the gesture.

“Mr. Randal’s assistant?” prompted Rand gently.

Charlotte was reluctant, but there was no way around it. “This is my niece, Caitlin Randal,” she said brusquely. “Glenshiel’s granddaughter and Fiona’s cousin.”

Close as she was to him, Caitlin could not miss the sudden tightening of his lips, the choked-off breath, the flare of shock in his eyes quickly brought under control.

“I don’t know what she has been telling you,” Charlotte went on archly, oblivious of the silent undercurrents, “but you mustn’t imagine that Caitlin is obliged to assist her uncle.

This is her choice. History is her passion, you see.

When she and Donald get started, the rest of us almost expire from boredom.

Caitlin, where are your manners? Make your curtsy to Lord Randal. ”

Caitlin bobbed a scant curtsy. After an infinitesimal pause, Rand bowed and Charlotte quickly took charge.

With her fingers curled like talons around Rand’s sleeve, she urged him to the door.

“Refreshments are to be served in the parlor. Fiona will be down directly. My father-in-law will be so disappointed when he hears that he has missed you. Do you know, he was saying only yesterday—”

Rand interrupted her spate of chatter to turn back to Caitlin. “Miss Randal, do you want to come with us?”

Charlotte glared a warning at her niece, and Caitlin, who had not the least inclination to continue her quarrel with the Randal, immediately replied, “Perhaps some other time.” She looked helplessly at the scattered papers on the table, then at Rand.

“You see how it is, Lord Randal,” and her eyes dared him to contradict her.

“Yes, I see how it is,” he murmured, and left her with the chilling impression that he had said far more than those few bland words.

Rand was still smiling when he took a punctilious leave of the two ladies not half an hour later. The moment he turned his horse to the dirt track that led to his own property, however, his smile faded and his look became reflective.