It had been her mistake to go there, and her father had made that clear with a lecture witnessed by every man training in that yard. It had been her sire’s place to reprimand her. It was a lesson she had never forgotten until her father died.
That made Gordon Dwyre’s judgment sting even more. She was not perfect, but that did not mean she needed another man attempting to act as her parent.
“Well then, it seems we are in agreement. I do not belong here, Lord Barras.” She pronounced his title with an English accent to drive home just how different they were.
The man snorted at her.
One direct sound that communicated just how much he disagreed with her. Jemma felt her chin rise—just a tiny amount—but his attention lowered to it, noticing the stubborn motion. His eyes flashed with an equal amount of determination to see her accept his will.
Which she would not do.
“I will look forward to sunrise and my departure.”
He didn’t care for her telling him what would be. Jemma witnessed the flare of resistance that lit his eyes, but he drew in a sharp breath, battling against the urge to argue with her. Jemma turned her back on him. It was a bold thing to do, possibly as foolish as riding out of Amber Hill against Synclair’s wishes.
But the tension was becoming unbearable. She had to move, do something to force the moment to pass before she buckled beneath the strain.
It was more than that . . .
She dug her fingernails into her palms while time felt as though it was frozen. She could still feel Gordon behind her.
When had she begun thinking of the Scot with his first name? To be sure that was going to bring her nothing but lament. The man wasn’t interested in her, far from it. He considered her foolish and a nuisance. His judgment stung in spite of her determination to cast it aside by reminding herself that she shouldn’t care a bit what he thought. Just because she enjoyed his glances.
She stiffened, trying to force the memory aside, but it was a battle that her body wasn’t willing to lose. The tension became too much, and she turned her head to look back at him. The spot where the large Scot had stood was empty. Jemma turned and scanned the dark corners of the room but found them empty of anything except furniture.
He did move silently. It was a pity that it was not so simple to remove his memory from her mind. Disappointment flowed through her, prickling her with a sense of loss that she cursed.
“Men do not always grasp what drives a woman to do the things she does.”
Ula spoke in a quiet tone that drew a snarl from her laird. But the sound did not disturb the housekeeper. She kept moving on even steps that never faltered. The woman walked right up to him and offered him a wooden mug with no fear of his temper.
“It does nae matter. I’m going to take her home and let her brother have the pleasure of dealing with her. I see why she’s uncontracted now.”
Gordon took the mug of ale and drew off a long swallow. Ula didn’t agree with him. He could see it in the woman’s eyes, and it annoyed him because it was the sort of look that women often gave men. One that suggested they felt that whatever was on their minds, men were incapable of understanding.
“The lass was riding out on the border land without a care for any harm that might befall her. ’Tis clear that she is nae married because she’s spoilt.”
Ula stiffened and Gordon grunted. “Speak yer mind, Ula. I have never dictated that ye must hold yer tongue. That is an English trait.”
“Ye have never needed to because I know when to keep my lips from flapping, Laird.”
Gordon shrugged and took another swallow from his mug. “Aye, ye are wiser than many that I’ve met. But I see that ye disagree with me on the girl. Why? Yer own son was riding with me. I didna think ye would care to hear that he was run through because of some English noble lass that does nae have the sense to remain inside her home when the sun is setting.”
“I would nae care for such news, ’tis true.”
“But?” Gordon pressed her, for some reason craving to know why the housekeeper disagreed with him when it came to Jemma Ramsden.
“But I have heard from Lilly who is the daughter of the blacksmith and has a sister married over on the Ramsden land to their cobbler Samuel Jerkins, that the girl was nursing her father for the last four years.” Ula tilted her head to the side, obviously considering her thoughts before speaking. She lifted one finger. “She could have left it to the maids, but Lilly said the lass tended her father with her own hands, even sleeping in the manservant lodgings alongside the master chamber. That is nae a spoilt child but one who loves their parent.”
“She was still riding along the border land with the sun sinking on the horizon. Maybe ye have nae heard, but we rescued her from a band of English rogues who were moments away from raping her.”
Gordon felt a prickle of relief cross his skin to settle into his bones. It surprised him because it was not the first time he’d intervened in foul plans. None of those times had made his knees feel weak or lingered in his thoughts much beyond a good mug of ale. He finished off what remained in his grasp, hoping to be done with the entire event.
It persisted, though, and Ula refilled his mug as though the housekeeper knew that he would not dispense with this bit of business easily.
“Fine, she is nae spoilt. At least no when it comes to being devoted to her family. But that does nae change the fact that the woman is senseless. She would require a great deal of effort to protect.”
