Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,73

could not think of a single intelligent thing to say.

“You’ve a fine horse,” she commented. “What do you call him?”

“He was foaled in January, so I named him Janvier.”

She reached out to touch the animal’s neck. “Rather fond of gray, aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am.” Jack forced himself to look at the cloudless sky, the rolling hills, the sheep in the lower meadow—anything to avoid studying the lovely young woman beside him. The Almighty had called him to provide for her and protect her, not pursue her. In any case, he was nearly old enough to be her father.

After a quiet moment she said, “Lord Buchanan, you expressed some concern about my traveling alone.” She waved her hand across the broad expanse. “As you can see, I have the countryside to myself.”

“This morn, aye,” he said, more sharply than he intended. “But there are shepherds in the commons, farm workers in the fields, dragoons on horseback, chapmen with their goods—”

“Admiral,” she said firmly, “I am a Highlander. Even Mrs. Pringle said I am made of stronger stuff. I can run like the wind if I need to and scream quite loudly if I must. I also carry a lethal pair of scissors round my neck.” She held them up to prove her point.

He sensed he was losing ground. “So you have no fear of these men who might cross your path?”

“I do not,” she said without hesitation. “My only fear this morn is not arriving by eight o’ the clock and thereby disappointing my new employer.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” he agreed, lengthening his stride, forcing her to do the same. They climbed the steep hill so briskly they could not converse. By the time they reached the crest, both of them were red-faced and winded.

“Please, Lord Buchanan.” Elisabeth stopped to pull out her handkerchief. “If I might have a moment to catch my breath.”

“Of course,” he murmured.

What an idiot you are, Jack! Did you mean to exhaust the woman?

When they started again, he let her set the pace. By the time they reached the stables, her cheeks were pale again and her breathing steady. “Thank you for your kind attention,” she said, then hastened toward the servants’ entrance.

He’d meant to tell her to use the main door. But perhaps this one was closer to her workroom. Had he even visited below stairs at Bell Hill? The kitchen, aye, but no farther. After handing the reins to a waiting groom, Jack strode toward the house, looking forward to a hot bath and a cooked breakfast, in that order.

Dickson was waiting in his second-floor bedchamber, where a copper bathtub sat by the fire, steaming buckets of water at the ready. Jack peeled off his clothes and was up to his chin in soapy water inside a minute. He exhaled, sinking deeper still.

“Do you mean to drown, sir?” Dickson asked.

“ ’Twould be no more than I deserve,” Jack confessed, not bothering to explain. Rolling his shoulders beneath the bath water, he felt his sore muscles tighten. “Haven’t you a wisp or something?” he grumbled.

“I am not a groom,” Dickson said, “and you are hardly a thoroughbred.”

“Well, I was once,” Jack shot back, though with no sting in his words. He was undeniably forty and felt every one of those years in his aching body, having ridden harder that morning than he had in many months, then made a fool of himself with his dressmaker.

After a good soak and fresh clothing, Jack’s mood improved. Mrs. Tudhope’s thick bacon and perfectly poached eggs helped even more. He was almost feeling human again when Roberts and Mrs. Pringle joined him in his study for their daily forenoon meeting.

Jack wasted no time on idle chatter. “Tell me, Roberts, how are the new servants managing?”

His butler gave a promising report, as did his housekeeper.

“And Mrs. Kerr,” Jack said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Today she begins sewing a new gown for …”

“Mrs. Tudhope,” came Mrs. Pringle’s quick reply.

“Milord …” Roberts looked at Mrs. Pringle as if seeking her approval. “I’ve been wondering if it might be faster to hire several dressmakers? We could have the household in matching attire within a month.”

Jack answered at once. “It would be faster, Roberts, but not wiser. As you know, Mrs. Kerr is supporting herself and her mother-in-law and desperately needs the income that I am able, by God’s grace, to provide.”

“Of course, milord. But—”

Jack stood, determined to make his point. “We could indeed hire more dressmakers and in short order have