Her Highland Protector

‘Dinner is served, my lord,’ the butler said from the doorway.

‘We will discuss this later,’ Carrick said smoothly.

Oh, no. He thought he was going to put her off yet again. She would not allow it. She had been the very soul of patience these past few months, but she wanted to go home. Surely Carrick could see how necessary it was? She’d told him often enough. Or perhaps that was the trouble. The more she pressed him, the more he resisted.

Naturally, while Carrick took Mrs Preston’s arm, Mr Gilvry came forwards to escort her into dinner. As she placed her hand on his sleeve, she felt the heat of his body down her side and sensed the raw power of his arm beneath her fingers. Tingles shivered up her arm in reaction to that leashed strength. She recalled how casually he had faced those villains on the road and how safe he’d made her feel.

A foolish impression. The man was ruthless in pursuing his own ends. A tremble shuddered deep in her bones. If it was fear, it came all tangled up in an excitement she did not understand.

She lifted her chin and walked beside him steadily, outwardly calm, while inside her unruly blood ran hot. She was glad when he released her to pull back her chair so she could be seated. The relief, when he moved to the opposite side of the table, was tainted by a confusing feeling of loss.

As they talked of political matters of interest to Carrick and the court gossip that so entertained Mrs Preston, Jenna glanced at Mr Gilvry from beneath her lashes. What about him set her in such disarray? His darkness? His reserve, except for the odd flash of interest when he glanced her way? Every time he did that, she felt a surge of blood in her veins. And all the time her heart felt too high in her throat.

No. It wasn’t he who had her feeling at sixes and sevens, it was Carrick’s about-face on the visit to Edinburgh, and the strain of saying nothing of importance until the moment was right.

Somehow, she managed to chatter on about inanities, all the while aware of Gilvry’s speculative glances.

What had Carrick said about her? Had he been told she’d been brought up a hoyden by an indulgent father and spoiled by her lonely widowed aunt? It wasn’t entirely true. Yes, she was determined to have her way, but she had to be. She had responsibilities. She’d learned what she needed to know about being the mistress of a house and it was time to put that learning into practice.

The servants brought in the last course: platters of sweetmeats and fruit. Now that the man had a full stomach, perhaps he’d be willing to listen to reason. She glanced at Mr Gilvry, who was gazing at her intently, with a look that made her toes want to curl inside her slippers.

She did not dare think about what that look meant. She plunged ahead with her question. ‘Well, Cousin, will you explain why it is you’re breaking your promise about taking me to Edinburgh?’ she asked casually while peeling an apple.

Carrick reared back in his seat.

Mrs Preston shot him a worried glance. ‘I really don’t think this is the time or the place to discuss family business, dearest Jenna.’

‘Why ever not?’ she said, widening her eyes in innocent surprise. ‘Mr Gilvry is family, is he not? At least as close to Lord Carrick as I am. Isn’t that right, my lord?’

Carrick cast her a look of displeasure, but seemed to wrestle his emotions under control because his voice when he spoke was surprisingly mild. ‘One can hardly refuse a request for a meeting when it comes from Lord Gordon.’

Mr Gilvry’s eyes widened. He lowered his gaze to his plate as if he was trying to hide his reaction. But there was no mistaking it. He had been surprised by this announcement. If one of the most influential Scottish Dukes had called for a meeting, would the under-secretary not know about it?

‘When?’ she asked, unable to prevent the question from tripping from her tongue and trying to soften it into a more civil enquiry by adding, ‘When do you leave?’

Carrick waved his fork. ‘Tomorrow. By ship for Edinburgh and then on to London.’

London? The largest marriage mart in the world. An abundance of wealthy gentlemen ripe for the plucking like low-hanging fruit. Surely one of them would be suitable? He didn’t have to be clever or handsome. He just had to be willing to spend his blunt on Braemuir in exchange for a title. ‘Why don’t Mrs Preston and I come with you?’

‘Not possible, I am afraid,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘This is business. I will have no time for assemblies and balls. I plan to return home as quickly as I may, I assure you.’

Her hand clenched around her knife as she fought to control her disappointment. ‘You agreed that it was necessary that I have a Season this year.’

The pained look on Carrick’s face said she’d disturbed his digestion. He put down the grape he had been about to eat. ‘I promised you would have an opportunity to find a husband. And so you shall.’ His jaw thrust forwards and Mrs Preston sent Jenna a look of alarm. Mr Gilvry looked as if he wished the floor would open and swallow him up. Clearly she was pushing too hard.

She took a deep breath. Forced her rising anger down. ‘Oh,’ she said lightly. ‘You are postponing. Now I understand. We will go to Edinburgh for the end of the Season, upon your return.’

It wasn’t exactly what he had said, but it might be one way to pin him down. He twisted and turned like an eel in a net whenever she tried to get a straight answer.

Having sent her shot across his bow, now might be the wise time to retreat. ‘Are you finished, Mrs Preston? If so, then perhaps we should leave the gentlemen to their port and adjourn to the drawing room for tea, where I hope we shall see them in a short while?’ She cast both men an inviting smile.

Mrs Preston fussed with her shawl. ‘Indeed. Indeed.’

Carrick grunted and half-rose to his feet.

Mr Gilvry stood and helped Mrs Preston from her chair. More pouring on the charm. Trying to impress his lordship, she presumed.

She dipped a curtsy and departed feeling as if she might have won a minor skirmish.

‘Did you know about this meeting with Gordon?’ she asked Mrs Preston as they walked the corridor to the drawing room.

The older woman shook her head. ‘I wish you would be less forthright with your cousin, dearest girl. More is accomplished with honey than with vinegar, you know.’

Was it? She’d tried both ways now. Being patient. Hurrying him. Nothing moved him. If his younger sons had been single gentlemen, she might have suspected him of wanting her lands and title for them. But they were married. And very advantageously, too. Was there more to these delays than the lack of time he always claimed? Ought she to be more suspicious? Certainly her estates were of no great import to him. He’d seemed barely aware of her existence while she was living with her aunt. If that dear lady hadn’t died, he might never have remembered he had a ward.

In the oak-panelled drawing room, the tea tray was already set out on the table in front of the hearth. It only wanted the delivery of hot water. Not that water was ever very hot by the time it made its way up from the kitchen in its separate building in the bailey.

One of the joys of having a history to maintain.

She had her own history to worry about. A Baron Aleyne had lived at Braemuir since the Dark Ages—until her father died. It was her duty to rectify the lack. Daily, the responsibility felt heavier.

And yet there was comfort in it, too. The thought of returning to the home she loved. All she needed was a wedding and a child or two, boy or girl, to know she had done her duty, honoured her promise.

‘Do sit down,’ Mrs Preston said. ‘All that pacing makes me feel quite bilious.’

She hadn’t realised she was pacing. She stopped short, staring at Mrs Preston.

‘What a charming young man Mr Gilvry is,’ Mrs Preston said, picking up her embroidery. ‘I had heard all the Gilvry men are as handsome as sin itself. Having seen this one, I can well believe it. Sadly, quite poverty-stricken, I understand.’

The kind of man she couldn’t possibly conceive of marrying, even if he was the closest thing to an eligible bachelor she had met in months.

Surely Carrick wasn’t thinking she would marry his poor relation? Without doubt, Mr Gilvry was young and attractive. Her heart gave a painful little hop. A reminder that it didn’t do to become too attached to anyone. It was too hurtful when they left one alone.

No, she would need to be careful around Mr Gilvry. He stirred up uncomfortable emotions she couldn’t control. And Braemuir required a woman of sense if it was to prosper.

If only she could bring Carrick to see the urgency of the matter. But how?

The butler arrived with the hot water and set it on the tray. ‘Will that be all, madam?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ the widow replied.

Jenna sat down opposite Mrs Preston and focused on the important issue of preparing tea. Or rather the important issue of how to ensure she would soon be pouring tea in her own drawing room at Braemuir.

Niall sipped at his port, though he would have preferred the traditional dram of whisky.

‘Lady Jenna is a determined young woman,’ Carrick muttered.

‘She seems set on this trip to Edinburgh,’ Niall responded in what he hoped were neutral tones. After all, this really was not his concern.