“Pardon my language, but that’s a load of bull crap,” he retorted crudely. “You may have done everything yourself because you had no one else. In Wystan, you have an entire castle full of people eager to assist.”
“For ten thousand pounds, I’m sure any number of people are eager,” she said dryly. “Even you. But my stepfather is a drunken gambler and bankrupt. There is no reward.” There, that should discourage his interest.
“This is not about the reward but your safety.” Still holding her arm, he surprised her by starting for a side entrance. “The butler’s pantry should be empty by now. We can always pretend we both came down for bread and cheese.”
She yanked her arm from his grasp but followed out of curiosity. Could she trust that he didn’t want the fake reward? About as much as he might trust her to lie about it being fake—impasse. “I have not followed any man’s orders since my mother died when I was sixteen. Do not think to tell me what to do.”
“Do I strike you as insane?” He held open the door for her. “I grew up surrounded by Malcolm women. Rainford was being polite by calling them headstrong.”
Iona tried to imagine growing up in a family of strong women but she failed even at the concept of family. “I wish I had known your family. Mine is isolated. I have no aunts or cousins.”
“Lucky you.” He led her through the dining room to the baize-covered door the servants used, into a room filled with cabinets of china and crystal. “The servants have learned to leave bread and accompaniments in here so we do not invade the kitchen to feed our late night cravings.”
“Thoughtful.” She watched as he carved a loaf of bread, realizing she was hungry.
“You barely ate your dinner.” He handed her a slice slathered in honey. “Sorry I can’t offer tea.”
Because everyone had the makings for tea in their bedchambers, Iona realized. In a house as sprawling as this, tea would be cold by the time it came from the kitchen. And he wasn’t about to go near a bedchamber with her, she understood.
In the intimacy of the empty pantry, the earl offered a comforting familiarity, as if they might actually be related. He didn’t seem particularly fond of family, but she’d like to imagine what it was like to be held and treasured, if only for a few minutes. Foolish, she knew. She’d simply been alone too long.
She stepped nearer the exit. “I am not your concern. I am virtually a stranger.”
He leaned his long frame against the wooden counter and finished chewing a bite of the apple he’d chosen. He’d loosened his cravat and collar earlier and unfastened his coat, giving him an unusually rakish air—especially with a beard shadowing his virile jaw.
“You are female, Malcolm, and a guest in my home. Unless you have already murdered your stepfather, it is my duty to shelter you. Is your sister safe? Do we need to send for her?”
Tears sprang to her eyes. She so wanted to see Isobel, to be certain she was safe and happy—“As safe as I am with a reward over our heads.” She tried to sound confident, as her mother had taught her. “We thought we were less likely to be noticed if we split up.”
“Fine, then let’s decide on the level of your danger. Why is your stepfather offering a reward he cannot afford?”
“He thinks he can sell my title,” Iona said flatly. “I am Iona, the Countess of Craigmore.”
Eight
Gerard was having some difficulty concentrating on the beekeeper’s story while inhaling her lush feminine scent entwined with roses. Did she wear perfume beneath that bulky gown? Had she removed her corset to move so freely?
Grateful her story didn’t involve tears so he did not feel compelled to take her in his arms and test his corset theory, he almost didn’t register the significance of her declaration.
Even then, he had to take time to process it through his lust-crazed brain. And another moment to reply with his practiced indifference. “Countess? You are heir to your father’s estate?”
A countess. He was hiding a runaway countess in Wystan. He knew better than to ask questions! Life was far simpler when he addressed only his assigned duties.
“My mother’s estate,” she corrected. “Craigmore is an old title. The writ passes to heirs general. We’re Malcolms, after all, and for a hundred years, we bore no sons. It was only sensible to allow the land to pass to offspring of either gender.” She nibbled at her last piece of bread. “Of course, even though she’s younger by an hour, Isobel could inherit. The title actually goes into abeyance until the Queen decides. We’ve never had reason to petition her.”
Gerard attempted to recall archaic Scots law, but he’d never really thought to need it. “So after your mother died, the title legally went into abeyance, but your stepfather continued using it?”
“Exactly. His only interest is in draining the estate and playing lord of the manor. We’re talking about the Highlands. We are accustomed to taking the law into our hands. Those who do not accept an English queen are even less likely to care about the legality of his claim.”
He rolled his eyes. “Jacobites, in this day and age.”
She ignored his comment. “My real father was a baron, so the locals were accustomed to calling my mother’s husband my lord. As his daughters, one of us can probably assume his barony. It was another ancient writ.” She pinched off a bit more bread. “My mother petitioned Parliament to allow my father to assume the higher title so our area would have better representation, as I understand it, leastways.”
“A cynical assessment but probably correct,” he agreed, cutting her
