“One assumes. My father died when we were quite young. My mother was already ill. She had no immediate family to rely on. Mortimer was a younger son, a gentleman, and not a bad-looking man according to our nursemaid. After they married, my mother left the burden of tending the land to him, while she took care of us and her bees.”
She told the tale as if reading from a storybook. Perhaps that was how she distanced herself from the pain. As heir, Gerard had always felt smothered by his family’s constant attention. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like without their support, even when he resented it.
“And then your mother died,” he said for her, watching warily for tears.
She nodded. “Isobel and I failed miserably at our one London season. We’d attended an English boarding school, but silly us, we’d spent it with books and studies and not developing social connections. Our mother never had our opportunities, so she had only her title to give us presence.”
“And no wealth.” Gerard fully understood how society worked. Barren land in the north wasn’t much of a dowry. “You and your sister weren’t at fault. Society is.”
“We simply didn’t think it mattered. We wanted to go home. At the time, we didn’t know how desperately ill our mother was and what would happen when she died. Once she was no longer there to control the purse strings, we seldom saw Mortimer. That didn’t bother us until the merchants closed our accounts for lack of payment.”
He could almost hear the sadness behind the finality of her tale. At sixteen, his sisters had delighted in frills, bought books and oil paints and whatever caught their fancy without thought to expense. The beekeeper and her sister probably couldn’t even buy food.
“But you managed to scrape by,” he finished for her. “What happened to make you flee?”
“Mortimer brought Arthur Winter home,” she said, as if the result was obvious.
“Sorry, I don’t know the name.” But he was already hating it.
“American industrialist, reportedly worth more than half the aristocrats in England.”
“Your stepfather gambled against him and lost?” Gerard guessed.
“I have no idea, but that’s a likely possibility,” she agreed with worldly cynicism. “And Mortimer was probably drunk and bragged of his countess daughters who could magically bestow titles upon marriage. Keep in mind that only the servants ever mentioned the title, usually scolding us for not being proper countesses. It’s fairly meaningless under the circumstances.”
“But not to an ignorant American willing to spend a fortune to be called Lord Craigmore. Or Lord Arthur, I suppose. It would only be a courtesy title without the patent.” Gerard snorted. “Or maybe he’d be called Lord Iona. I’ll have to check DeBrett’s.”
She managed a small smile. “I doubt it works that way. Men are in charge, after all. They’d never allow another man to be demeaned by assuming the wife’s name.”
“Although it’s fine for a woman to be demeaned by taking a man’s name. Do not preach at me.” Now that there was less danger of tears, Gerard pushed. “For this incompetent duo, you would abandon your queen bee and the safety of Wystan?”
She eyed him with disfavor, which was fine with him. He needed that distance to keep from tugging her into his arms and kissing her until neither of them cared about titles and rewards.
“Try placing yourself in my position, my lord. An entire tribe of eager aristocrats come galloping to your door the instant they hear of a fortune and heiresses. Your host is stewing with avarice at just the mention of a reward. And your sister is even closer to danger. What would you do?”
Danger, the medallion repeated.
Iona wanted to weep at the loss of this perfect home, but she defiantly waited for Ives to produce magic rabbits from his over-sized hat.
The earl appeared intelligent, strong, and competent, despite his rakish attire and stubbled jaw. She wanted him to produce magic rabbits.
Except Rainford and his friends had rode straight here. They would seek other Malcolm strongholds as well. There weren’t many. She and Isobel might blend in to some extent, but with that reward—wheat would separate from chaff soon enough.
That anyone would want them enough to pay money for their return had never once occurred to them. They had just been escaping an untenable situation.
“I don’t suppose either of you have a suitor or two, do you?” Ives asked pessimistically, jarring her from her thoughts.
Iona almost laughed. “Hardly. Even if we were interested in sheepherders, we terrified them. Isobel once caught the rather handsome son of the local mercantile owner padding our bill, and I verbally shredded him. I could have done far worse. He left town not long after. Why would you ask?”
He shrugged and munched a biscuit. She watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down, and experienced a perplexing tightening in her middle. No wonder men hid their throats—they were quite visibly masculine and nothing like a lady’s.
His reply jarred her back to reality—“Obvious solution to Mr. Winter’s pursuit is for you to be already married, unless he’s as bloodthirsty as you and inclined to shoot your husband.”
Iona almost hooted at the notion of marriage. “I’m the one inclined to shoot. I can’t imagine Mr. Winter raising a sweat much less a gun. He’s naïve. His wealth is the danger. Besides, if I married, they would simply hunt Isobel. Want to find husbands for us both? By all means, keep hunting for a solution we haven’t already considered. We thought hiding until he went away would suffice. Canada seems our next best option. Would you care to finance the journey?” she asked in sarcasm.
“If I could afford a journey, I’d send myself to Italy. My family is land rich and blessed with numerous relations, all of whom receive allowances that drain
