Page 25

Ten years later, Grace had long outgrown Kelpie, who was quite an old lady by that time. She still gave rides to the children who came to visit the staff sometimes, but her first loyalty was to Grace, as it had always been, particularly during the apple season. Grace would never part with her, since she was one of the many memories of her mother that she kept close to her heart.

She tried to think of the happy times she had enjoyed with her mother, and not the torturous last days of her life after her stillborn baby had been delivered, when she had caught childbed fever and died a slow and agonising death.

It had taken years for Grace to even begin to recover from that trauma, and sometimes she feared that she never would. She dreamt about her mother often and sometimes Grace felt that she was watching over her daughter as though she was still alive.

Her death, as that of her stillborn son, did not seem to have affected her father very much. He gave her a lavish funeral, wore black and mourned for the appropriate amount of time, then he moved on with his life as if nothing had happened. He had never thought of his daughter as anything more than an inconvenience, but Grace had become used to that.

Henry Richard was, in fact, the Fifth Viscount of Holmwood, but Lily Richards had never allowed anyone to call her Viscountess or even Lady Richards.

Now that Grace was Lady Richards she felt the same about the pretentious title. The staff called her “Mistress” as a form of address that they would use to any woman of a higher station than themselves, but that was the extent of Grace’s tolerance.

They lived in the hereditary home of the Richards family at Holmwood Manor on an estate that her mother had dismissively described as being “half the size of England”. The tenants had always adored her because of her lack of air and graces and had been devastated when she died. Grace had tried to take her place in some small way, but she knew that her mother was simply irreplaceable.

As she rode through towards the entrance to the manor house, Grace saw a horse approaching at a slow canter. She intercepted the rider and gave him a friendly smile. “I am Grace Richards, Sir,” she said politely. “May I help you?”

The stranger hesitated for a moment. He was a strange-looking fellow, Grace thought as she looked him up and down. He was quite old, perhaps in his early to mid-sixties, with a thick mane of wavy, snow-white hair and a beard to match. As well as that, he was wearing the strangest garment she had ever seen on a man.

It looked like a skirt that reached his knees and was made of a long piece of fabric patterned with checks and stripes of green and blue, one end of which went over his right shoulder. A scruffy leather jacket over a white shirt and boots with the hilt of a long knife sticking out of one of them completed his odd outfit.

The eyes that were staring back at Grace did not have the dull hue of old age, however; they were the piercing bright green of spring leaves.

“Aye, hen,” he answered. “You can tell Lord Holmwood that Fergusson McAulay wants to see him.”

As soon as he opened his mouth, Grace realised who the man was. Although he had spoken mostly clear, intelligible English, the rough Scottish burr gave him away at once.

“We have been expecting you, Laird McAulay,” she told him, valiantly keeping up her smile, “but you are a little early.”

The man frowned deeply, his shaggy brows shadowing his eyes. “Would you like me to come back tomorrow?” He looked so fierce that Grace felt a little intimidated.

“No, no,” she hastened to reassure him. “You are most welcome here, Laird McAulay. Please follow me.”

They rode into the stables, where one of the grooms took the man’s horse, a big piebald stallion, and began to lead him away.

“Mind you treat that horse well,” McAulay warned. “Or there will be trouble. His name is Tam.”

The young man’s eyes widened in surprise but he nodded in acknowledgment as he took the horse to the stables.

“The stable staff are very competent, Laird McAulay,” Grace told him, unable to keep a note of anger out of her voice.

“I’m sure they are, Milady,” he acknowledged. “But that horse is very precious to me, and I always look after what is mine. And my title is ‘M’Laird’.”

“Why is that?” she asked, puzzled. “I thought the Lairdship passed directly from father to son.”

“I would have told you eventually,” the old man said irritably, “but since you are so impatient, Milady, here is why. My nephew’s wife and son died a few years ago, and for a while, he was very distraught and unable to cope. Therefore, when his father was on his deathbed he entrusted the Lairdship to me until such time as Logan remarries. He must find a good, steady woman to stand by him. Now, does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“Yes, M’Laird,” Grace said tersely, gritting her teeth to stop an angry outburst from escaping her lips. Then, to her relief, she saw one of her favourite manservants, a young, dignified man, John, and called him over.

“Please take Mr McAulay to my father’s study, John,” she requested, then turned back to the old man whom she was beginning to dislike intensely. “Excuse me. I must tidy myself up a little.”

“Of course, Mistress,” the young man answered with a little bow. “Come with me, Sir.”

“M’Laird,” he said gruffly. “You can call me M’Laird.” Then McAulay gave Grace a curt nod and allowed himself to be led away.

Grace stood looking at his back until he was out of sight as if she could mentally throw daggers at him. She had been expecting someone old and a little different from what she was used to, but she had been hoping for a modicum of civility and politeness. She had received neither.

She took the stairs to her bedchamber two at a time in a very unladylike fashion and burst into the room, startling her maid, Catherine, who was folding and putting away some of Grace’s clothes.

“Mistress, you scared me half to death!” she protested, putting her hand to her chest in fright.

“I am sorry, Cathy.” Grace was flustered as she looked at her maid, “but I have to look my best—very quickly indeed!”

Just then there was a sharp rap at the door, and a woman entered without being invited in. Grace’s Aunt Diana was a force to be reckoned with, and she looked the part.

She was a widow in her late forties with wavy iron-grey hair that she kept scraped back in a tight bun. A beautiful woman with strong features, she had the kind of deep brown eyes that made you feel as though she could bore into your mind and read your thoughts. She was also four inches taller than most women and had a kind of forceful presence that was almost masculine in its essence.

Only those very close to her knew that Diana Richards had a heart of gold, and was capable of the kind of love that only a mother can feel for her child, which was remarkable since she had no children of her own.

They had a symbiotic relationship; Grace needed a mother and Diana needed a child. Indeed, since Grace’s mother had died when she was ten, Diana Harding had filled a great void in Grace’s life. She could never take Lily Richards’s place, of course, but she provided her with much more affection and concern than her father did.

Now she sat down and looked at her niece with her usual penetrating stare for a moment before saying, “You know how important this meeting is?”

Grace sighed. “Indeed I do, Auntie,” she replied, turning her back on Diana and casting her gaze heavenwards, reflecting that this must be the hundredth time she had heard the same speech.

“You know how long your father has been trying to secure this alliance?” Diana persisted. “Almost as long as you have been alive. I was supposed to marry Fergus McAulay, but that fell through when your Uncle George came along, thank God!” She gave a heartfelt sigh. “Now it is your turn to?—”

Grace held up a hand. “I know, Auntie. I know because you told me last time and the time before that and the time before that.” She twirled around in front of the mirror to inspect the plain brown dress she was wearing and pronounced herself satisfied.

“Wouldn’t you like me to do something different with your hair, Mistress?” Cathy asked, frowning.

“He has seen me with a plait,” Grace replied, shrugging. “I am not putting on a show for him. He will have to take me or leave me just as I am.” Then she turned and walked out.

Grace was taking slow deep breaths as she descended the stairs, trying to control the rapid thumping of her heart. Although she had known that she would be married in a short time, the reality had never really sunk in before. Now she was faced with it, she found that she was mentally unprepared, and it was terrifying.

She had never seen her prospective husband and knew nothing about his character. He might be a beast, or a bore, or a selfish swine for all she knew.

And what if he was physically repulsive? Grace knew that looks were the very last thing that mattered in a relationship, but she could still not bear the thought of marrying someone old or ugly. But then there was the other possibility; a very handsome man could be unbearably vain and self-centred. It seemed that there were hazards whichever way she looked.

However, as she saw the door to her father’s study looming up before her, she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and thrust out her chest. She might be scared, but she was damned if she was going to show it!

When Grace entered the room, she was surprised to see Fergus McAulay jump to his feet in the classic sign of respect to a woman entering the room. Her father had described him as uncouth, but apparently, he was not wholly so. She smiled and inclined her head at him, and as she sat down, he did likewise, returning her smile. Fergus was quite clearly a gentleman, despite his rough exterior.

“Did you enjoy your refreshment, M’Laird?” Grace asked politely. Grace had supplied him with a few biscuits and fruit after she had heard his stomach rumbling. “We are having lunch soon, but you looked as though you were about to faint with hunger.”

“Indeed I did, Mistress,” the man replied, then his green eyes twinkled as he said, “Mind you, the ale left a wee bit to be desired, but I dare say I will get used to it. We have some excellent brewsters in Scotland who can teach you a thing or two. Now, Lord Richards—to business. I need to ask Grace a few questions about the union between my nephew and her.”

The corners of Grace’s mouth turned up as she looked at the Scotsman. She was both surprised and pleased at his good manners and the fact that his barbed but humorous comments about the ale had quite clearly upset her father. It had long been known that her father’s preferred brewers were those that made a substandard product, and he used them because it was cheap. Given a choice, Henry Richards always preferred to sacrifice quality for economy.

Fergus’s bright green eyes turned to Grace and she was mesmerised by their piercing quality.

“Now, are you consenting to this marriage without reservation?” he asked. “Because I do not want my nephew to be unhappy. He lost his wife and child in a battle a few years ago, and I do not wish him to suffer anymore. I know that this will be a big responsibility for you, but all I ask is that you are kind to him.”

He looked at Henry Richards, who was glaring at him over the rim of his wine glass, and warned, “The agreement has not yet been signed, so I would like any doubts to be aired now.”

“What kind of doubts?” Henry Richards snapped irritably. “Let me hear yours first.”

“I would like to know that if we are trading in wine,” the other man said, “you will not be sending me any of this vintage.”

“Why not?” Richards demanded. “It is a perfectly good wine.”

“That is a matter of opinion.” Fergus replied, grimacing. “It is very tannic.”

Henry Richards was startled. He had always thought Scotsmen too uncouth to know about such things.

Grace stifled a giggle, but both men heard it anyway. Her father glared at her, but Fergus gave her a mischievous smirk.

“But seriously,” Fergus went on, “I would like to know if you, Milady, are going into this marriage willingly.”

“I would like to know a bit more about Logan,” she answered. “Is he still in mourning for his wife and son?”

“Not officially,” the Scotsman answered. “But even though they died five years ago, he still misses them. There are times when I catch him sitting looking into space with tears running down his cheeks even now. He needs to be treated with a bit of consideration—not that he is a sissy mind you!” Fergus’s voice became a growl and he gave her a warning glance.

“He has a strong will and is well-respected by all his men, but he is in need of a wife who will stand by his side and be loyal above all things; a strong woman. But we must be realistic. You may never fall in love, but my hope is that you can be reasonably happy. If he ever does anything that makes you unhappy, you tell me!” He thumbed his chest, and his bright green eyes darkened with anger. “I have no patience with men who ill-treat women. I promise you will have nothing to worry about on that score. He is a gentleman and a man of honour. I sometimes wish he was my son.”

“I want to know that he will treat me well and that I will feel able to treat him well in return,” Grace said hopefully. “I am going to another country with different people who have different customs, and I will have no friends. Will he look after me?”

“Better than anybody here, hen!” Fergus answered. He cast a disparaging look at Grace’s father, who scowled back, then regarded her, his eyes twinkling. “You will know that when you see him. Scotsmen value their wives and daughters. He will fight for you, and if you ever wondered what a real man looks like, you will not have to wait much longer to find out.” His voice rang with pride. “He is very protective of those whom it is his duty to protect, and as his wife, you will be first among those.

You might find him a little rough for your taste at first, but as you get to know him, you will find that the tough shell hides a heart of gold.” Then his face became dark and sombre. “He is like a son to me, so do not break his heart.” His voice carried a note of warning, but Grace was not afraid. In spite of his crusty exterior, she was beginning to like the Scotsman. She looked across at her father, whose expression was thunderous; evidently, he did not share her feelings

Grace smiled at the description and immediately thought of her mother. “He sounds like a good man,” she remarked. I wish you could meet him, Mama, she thought, as a stab of sadness pierced her heart. “Do you have a good stable?” she asked.

Before Fergus had a chance to answer, Grace’s father spoke up again, this time addressing his question to Fergus. “You do want your nephew to marry, do you not?” he asked.

“Of course I do!” The other man replied. “Would I be here if I didn’t? Are all Englishmen as dense as you?”

Henry Richards’s face turned almost crimson. “Then perhaps you should try being a little more civil!” He turned to Grace. “This is a marriage of convenience only. What either of you feels is unimportant. We want a functioning business partnership and heirs, and if my daughter and your nephew can provide them, well and good. Their happiness comes second.” He turned to Grace. “Go and begin your preparations to leave. There will be much to do.”

Grace suppressed the urge to yell at her father in rage. She meant nothing to him; she was merely a commodity to trade, just like the wine and brandy he bought from the French.

She stood up and curtsied to the Laird, who bowed to her. “It was good to meet you, Mistress,” he said, then he gave her a look that said, Do not worry , and she was reassured. She smiled at him briefly, then turned and left.