Mary Fran and Matthew

He lifted the cup close to her nose, so she could see the fragrant steam curling up and catch a whiff of rich black tea. “You have not yet taken a single bite of your breakfast, and I would not hurry you through your meal. Part of the challenge Her Majesty’s forces face in the Balkans is the simple logistical difficulty of defending our interests so far from home. This is the same factor that eventually defeated Napoleon. Drink your tea and eat a proper breakfast.”

She took a sip. “The Russian winter had a hand in things, as I recall my history.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “You know some military history.”

She smiled back, a small but genuine smile that fortified Matthew every bit as much as a stout cup of breakfast tea might. “Four older brothers, Mr. Daniels, and more than a passing respect for Highland winters. I’ll see you in the stables in an hour.”

Matthew rose, intent on changing into riding attire, but was arrested by the gaze of Ian MacGregor, Earl of Balfour. His lordship was leaning against the doorjamb to the breakfast parlor, the look in the man’s eyes speculative.

“Daniels.”

“My lord.” Matthew hoped that would be the end of it, but the earl ambled along beside him as Matthew headed into the corridor.

“Ach, must we be milording so early in the day? If you’re going to flirt with my sister, MacGregor will do, or Ian, since we’ve several MacGregors underfoot.”

The earl wasn’t just tall, he was broad, well muscled, and exuded the fitness of a man of the land. Dark hair made a handsome contrast to mossy green eyes, and his smile would have felled many a debutante in the ballrooms to the south.

“I’m going riding with the lady,” Matthew said, pausing at the foot of the stairway.

The earl paused right along with him. “Riding is always a nice place to start. Can’t get up to too much mischief when you’re on separate horses, can you? You will be on separate horses?”

“For God’s sake, Balfour, your sister is hardly going to content herself riding pillion behind an Englishman.”

“Her husband was English.” Balfour studied his big, blunt fingernails, while Matthew absorbed that Balfour was trying to warn him of something.

“It is not a crime to be English.” And why, come to think of it, did Lady Mary Frances eschew her married name?

“It isn’t any great advantage, either, at least not when a fellow is sniffing around Mary Fran’s skirts.” Balfour’s face creased into a grin that wasn’t exactly merry. “Enjoy your ride.”

With that cryptic comment, the earl spun on his heel and disappeared in the direction of the breakfast parlor.

Matthew repaired to his room, laid out his riding clothes, and tried to determine what Balfour had been telling him. The Scots were deuced canny, of necessity. By virtue of famine, clearances, service on various fighting fronts in Highland regiments, or by operation of prejudicial law, a stupid Scot was historically a dead Scot. This reality had been impressed upon Matthew by the Scottish officers he’d shared campfires with, and by his own family’s Scottish history.

But the typical Scot was also fair-minded to a fault.

Balfour really had been warning him, he decided. Warning him that only a stupid Englishman would do more than flirt with the fair Mary Frances.

“Or perhaps,” Matthew told his reflection in the cheval mirror, “an Englishman who relishes a challenge and recognizes another lonely soul when he sees one.”

Though maybe dallying with Mary Fran was the aspiration of an Englishman who was both lonely and stupid.

***

“I haven’t been up to this lookout since…” Mary Fran paused to take in a great lungful of heather-scented air and tried to think back.

“Then it has been too long. A view like this restores the soul.”

Matthew Daniels sat a horse like a man born to the saddle. His horsemanship was a relaxed, natural thing, not a set of skills he’d honed just to show off, and his boots and breeches weren’t in the first stare of fashion. They looked comfortable, like Mary Fran’s old green velvet riding habit.

He gestured to the west, to the gleaming gray edifice under construction farther up the River Dee. “I take it that’s Balmoral?”

“None other. Albert had it designed for his Queen—and their children, of course. It seems a shame to use such a lovely property only a few months of the year.”

“It seems a shame that you are moldering away here in the countryside the year round, my lady. Doesn’t some part of you long for the society of Edinburgh?”

If he’d been flirting with her the livelong morning, if his efforts to boost her into the saddle had been the least forward, if he’d done anything except appreciate the beauty of her home, Mary Fran might have launched a barbed retort discouraging his suggestion that her life was somehow incomplete.

But he’d been a perfect gentleman. Polite and friendly without a hint of impropriety. His demeanor reminded Mary Fran of the way all the gentlemen had treated her prior to her marriage.

“I might like to see a bit of the South, but then I’d have to leave my Fee, wouldn’t I?”

“I beg your pardon?” He stood in the stirrups then settled back into the saddle, an equestrian at his leisure. “Your fee? I can’t imagine your brothers would begrudge you wages should you take a short holiday.”

Too late, Mary Fran realized that the barrier she vigilantly maintained between her role as hostess and her role as mother had fallen. Oh, the female guests usually got wind of Fiona at some point—the child was outright pestering the spinster cousin, Augusta Merrick—but Mary Fran kept her daughter away from the gentlemen guests.

Far, far away, particularly from the English ones.

“Not that kind of fee, but my Fiona.”

Daniels’s expression didn’t change.

“My daughter Fiona.” Mary Fran pretended to study Balmoral, a brand-new building intended to resemble something medieval, at least from a distance. She knew the place well—Her Majesty was a good neighbor, and His Highness an avid sportsman—but she did not know why she kept talking.

“Fiona is my heart. I love her dearly, but she’s impossible sometimes. She says the most confounding things, and she has no sense except at the oddest moments. Her uncles dote on her, and I worry that isn’t a good thing, then I worry that I ought to be doting on her.”

She fell silent, wishing not that she’d kept her mouth shut, but that her companion would say something.

“You sound like my commanding officers, fretting over the troops. Doubting yourself for coddling them, doubting yourself for enforcing the discipline an army needs to function, despairing over the best soldiers when they do the most idiot things on leave.” He offered her a smile, a slow tipping up of his lips, the same smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “It’s the very devil when one can’t help but care, isn’t it?”

She realized something about him then. He was not only a former military man at loose ends in the civilian world, not only an Englishman, not only a paying guest whose sister might well be the next Countess of Balfour.

He was a man, a human being, a fellow creature. A man who had refused Mary Fran’s invitation to sin simply because he was decent.

She basked in his smile, in the understanding of it, and offered him her own smile in return. “The very devil, indeed. I want to brain my brothers most days. They must wear their muddy boots in the house, swear in front of Fiona, and tell lewd jokes when they think I’m not listening.”

“Sounds like life in the military—though you might also have alluded delicately to the noisome bodily functions one doesn’t speak of in Polite Society.”

He was pretending to study Balmoral now too, but Mary Fran couldn’t help it. She laughed, a chuckle at first, then a great big belly laugh that had the horse shifting beneath her.

“Tell me more about military life, Matthew Daniels. I might have some useful suggestions for its