Indiscretion (9 page)

"Cheeky bugger—ooh, now where are you going? What about that tea trolley I can see in the drawing room?"

He turned on his heel, walking backward. "Take care of it for me, sweetheart, won't you? I have an important errand to run."

"Sweetheart?" She blushed, almost dropping her sheets on the bottom steps. "You devil-—you're up to something naughty, aren't you, Sutherland?"

"Me?" He gave an innocent shrug, hand on his chest. "Why would you think that?"

She shook her head as his tall figure disappeared from sight. "The best-looking ones always bring trouble, God bless 'em."

15

A
nne
was at a loss for words when she and Wallace reached the stables only to find Patrick waiting for them. Elegant in charcoal riding breeches, jacket, and high-buttoned riding boots, he appeared to be in the process of picking a suitable horse for himself.

Actually, he was looking for a dependable mount for Anne. Her disregard for her personal safety probably frightened him as much as it had her husband, but the difference between the two men was that David would never have dared to intervene when it came to Anne's passion for riding. Patrick dared to intervene, and more, even if he sensed he would have the fight of his life on his hands.

"Her ladyship will take the chestnut gelding, I think," he said to the young groom, turning from the stall.

"No, she will not," Anne said in a curt voice. She wore a cutaway plaid jacket over a green velvet
skirt. The veil of her black silk hat hid her agitated
expression.

Sir Wallace looked ready to explode. "What the deuce are you doing in her ladyship's stables dressed in—are those Lord Whitehaven's clothes, Sutherland?"

Patrick gave him a perfectly bland look. "I am waiting to accompany her ladyship on her rousing ride, of course."

"Accompany us?" Sir Wallace said, blinking. "A butler?"

Patrick pulled a pair of gray kidskin gloves from his pocket. "Didn't her ladyship tell you? I was a groom before I became a butler, sir."

"Were you indeed?" Sir Wallace said acerbically.

An undergroom led Anne's iron-gray stallion out of the stables. Patrick inserted himself between Anne and Sir Wallace before the older man could huff out a protest.

"Allow me," he said coolly, extending his arm to Anne. "We would not want you to soil that tweed jacket, sir. It does not look as if it has too many years of wear left in it."

Sir Wallace's mouth dropped open, and as there was no predicting what outrageous thing Patrick would say next, Anne hastened to intercede.

"Find out where Flora is, Wallace," she said, glaring down at Patrick's face. "I shall wait for you outside the paddock."

"As you wish, my dear."

"You are the devil incarnate," she whispered to Patrick as Wallace reluctantly wandered off to find his daughter.

"I have no idea what you mean," he said guilelessly.

She grunted and gathered the reins in her left hand. Grinning to himself, Patrick grasped her left leg at the knee, closing his other hand around the ankle, and hoisted her into the air with such force that she practically dove head over horse to the other side.

He chuckled, grabbing hold of her skirts to save her; he caught a glimpse of the chamois drawers she wore to keep from slipping off the saddle. "My goodness, Lady Whitehaven. It appears I don't know my own strength."

"Let go of my behind, you scoundrel," she whispered indignantly.

"What?" He cupped his ear, pretending not to hear. "Speak up, Anne. I cannot understand you when you whisper through that veil. I spent several years in the infantry. Gunfire does something to one's hearing."

"My behind," she hissed.

"Behind whom?" he said, glancing around, his hand slowly easing beneath her bottom, which was positioned at a provocative angle in the air.

"My posterior, you damned fool."

"Your posterior?" Patrick took the opportunity to squeeze her buttocks in both hands before repositioning her in the saddle. "What's wrong with it? It feels verra nice to me. Hmmm. Quite solid. Put on a bit of beef, haven't we?"

"Why, you—"

He backed away, his dark eyes dancing. "The wee
bit of flesh suits you, Anne. I always thought you were too slender. Do you remember how easily I carried you down the hill in the rain? Light as a sprig of heather, you were."

She took a breath. "I don't remember anything of the kind."

"Remember what?" Sir Wallace asked, riding up beside Anne on a lively dun.

"The way to the village," she said carefully.

"No problem there," Sir Wallace said. "I know exactly where to go." He nudged his horse forward, forcing Patrick to step aside. "Advise Lady Invermont that your mistress will probably be home late for supper. I suspect we'll end up dining at the coaching inn. Fancy some grilled salmon, Anne?"

Patrick's lips flattened into a straight line. Sir Wallace was riding the horse he had saddled for himself. It was not unusual for a butler or valet to accompany an employer on a drive or a ride when another servant wasn't available, and he'd had every intention of tagging along on this little outing to make sure the baronet behaved himself.

He looked up mockingly into Anne's veiled face. "I would be remiss in my duties if I did not accompany you, ma'am."

"Her ladyship is an excellent hands," Sir Wallace said smugly. "You may return to your pantry, Sutherland."

Patrick's gaze bore into him with such menace that Sir Wallace's smug look promptly wilted. "I will fetch another horse."

Several seconds passed. Patrick vanished into the stables, and Anne stared straight ahead, her expression inscrutable. Sir Wallace cleared his throat.

"What do you say we lose him, Anne?" he suggested in an undertone. "Between us both, we can surely outride a butler."

"Lead him on a merry chase?"

"Precisely."

She bit her lip and laughed. "I say it's a splendid idea."

P
atrick swore aloud as he watched the two riders disappear into the woods, Anne taking the lead. Her spine was perfectly vertical; her right shoulder back and hips square. There was something graceful and suggestive about the way she rocked in rhythm with a massive stallion, and Patrick remembered how he had watched her in fascination years ago on the moor. Was she begging to be caught? Was she running from something even now? Years ago he had not the depth of emotion to understand her.

"Do you want me to chase you?" he said softly. "Aye, I will. Then we'll see who takes revenge."

He spun around, then took a step back to avoid walking into the path of a young red-haired woman who had just emerged from the stables. She looked sleek in a brown riding habit, and her hazel eyes narrowed speculatively when she noticed him.

"Who are you?" she demanded, tapping her riding quirt across her thigh.

He released a sigh. "Sutherland, her ladyship's butler."

"Her—" She looked him up and down. Then she let out a loud hoot of laughter. "Well, we have certainly never had a butler who looked anything like you in our house. Perhaps I need to leave Scotland more often."

He tried to move around her, not in a mood to dally while Anne was beyond his protection. "If you will excuse me, miss, I'm supposed to accompany her ladyship on her ride, and I fear I've lost her."

The quirt poked him in the side. "Take me with you."

He turned and tugged the whip out of her gloved hands, thinking he ought to give her a good swat across her own behind. "I shall get lost if I wait any longer, miss."

"No, you won't. I know a shortcut through the woods." She gave him a knowing grin. "I'll bet my papa will waylay Anne somewhere anyway. He's dying to romance her."

He glanced to the bridle path where Anne and Wallace moved like colorful blurs against the gray September sky. "Show me this shortcut."

"Help me mount first, Sutherland." She wrested the whip from his hand. "And give me this in case I need it. You look as if you could be a very wicked butler indeed."

"Appearances can be deceptive, miss," he said calmly.

A
n early autumn chill laced the air, and hazelnuts were beginning to drop even though chaffinches
still sang from the woods. At the village outskirts the hoddie crows had already claimed the shorn cornfields, rowan hoops were being made to protect the sheep from evil, a
nd Samhain was only a month or s
o away.

"You truly look nothing like a butler," Flora said thoughtfully as they rode through a grove of alder and mountain ash, following a trail so overgrown it could have been used by the Druids, for all Patrick knew.

"Don't I?" He was barely listening to her; he was staring toward the purple-brown moor at the ruins of a crumbling broch where the ancient Piets had once awaited their enemies. He had caught another glimpse of Anne on the causeway, but now he couldn't see her at all, and that worried him. He knew too well what could happen between a man and a woman in such a setting, and he knew also Anne wanted to punish him.

"You don't act like one, either," she added.

She examined his profile in silence, studying his bladed nose and high-cheekboned face, apparently determined to provoke a reaction. "My papa wants to marry your mistress," she said slyly. "What do you think of that?"

He finally turned his head to glance at her, and Flora caught her breath, regretting what she had said as the thought struck her that if she looked too deeply into his unholy eyes, she might see her own downfall. She did not know exactly who he was, but her instincts suddenly warned her that he brought trouble into her life.

"What should I think of
it, miss?" he asked quietl
y.

She shook her head, unable to answer, but then the faint whickering of Anne's stallion broke the spell of silence, and Patrick turned away.

"What is it?" she whispered.

He drew in his breath; he was unprepared when he saw Anne's horse break into a canter from behind the broch with Sir Wallace at her side. "A race, I think," he said, his body shifting position.

"They're a pair of fools," Flora exclaimed, shaking her head. "Papa is too old to ride like that. The last time—"

He didn't wait for her to finish; his knees gripping the gelding, he thundered hard down the hill to join the race. His male instincts wouldn't allow him to lose, and he felt a savage thrill when Anne glanced over her shoulder and saw him passing Sir Wallace as the moor climbed to a hilly ridge.

He was almost close enough to touch her. He could hear her laughing, and the wind pulled her hat off, the veil tumbling into the rough heather and juniper that flew in tufts from the horses' hooves. When he had first met Anne, he had assumed her penchant for pursuing danger came from a wildness inside her that matched his own rebellious streak. Now he felt like a bastard for never digging deeper into her life, for asking why she tempted fate. His heart ached as he remembered what Isobel had told him. Anne had been trying to run from her own pain, and instead of saving her, he had only made the situation worse.

But Anne didn't look unhappy now. In fact, she was in her element, riding to race the devil, and if he had been paying closer attention, he would have realized she was poised to jump the stallion over a wall of loose-lying stones that had been piled to enclose cattle on the moor.

"Don't." He felt the blood drain from his face, and his shout was lost in the wind. "Damn you, Anne,
don't!"

Time froze, and he half rose in the stirrups, all his focus on the graceful fury of the woman he realized he had never really known. Was she trying to kill herself? He couldn't stand to watch and he couldn't look away as she took flight, pelvis down, hips straight. His mind stopped for the endless seconds it took for her to soar over the stones and land in a perfect position to canter from his sight.

He reined in his horse at the wall, so shaken and furious that when he heard the other woman's scream behind him, he almost couldn't move at all. He was still paralyzed by the thought of Anne lying in a broken heap before him.

16

H
e
shook the image off, turning in time to watch Sir Wallace sail over the dun's shoulder, carried by the momentum of the chase.

Apparently, the fall wasn't serious. Sir Wallace was covered in mud and shouting at his daughter, who was making a fuss not because she feared her papa was hurt, b
ut rather because she had splat
tered mud on her new riding habit, and she had evidently twisted her leg.

"How will I get another skirt in time for the shooting season, that's what I want to know. This red loam will never wash out." She limped through the mud to her father, who was sitting on a rock holding his head in his hands. "Papa, why did you have to chase after her like that? You have made an utter fool of yourself, my clothes are ruined, and my leg is hurt."

Patrick rolled his eyes, then dismounted and walked to the scene of the crime. "Are you all right, sir?" he asked, trying not to laugh.

Sir Wallace looked up at him. True, they were rivals for Anne's affection. In the days of old, they would have battled it out with mace and sword until one of them lay dead or bleeding on the ground. They still might end up in a mortal duel for that matter, the woman was that maddening. And the fact remained that Patrick would not have trusted a man like Wallace under any condition.

But for a moment they were simply two men who had just been made fools of by the woman they desired. Their eyes connected in a flash of shared defeat. They grunted, acknowledging their mutual humiliation and frustration. This bond of male empathy wouldn't last, of course; they'd push each other off a cliff in an instant to be the one to warm Anne's bed.

For this moment, however, they were of one mind. "I'm fine, Sutherland," Sir Wallace said with grudging appreciation. "Thank you for asking."

"Think nothing of it, sir."

Sir Wallace hit his bonnet on his knee. "Damn that woman's hide. I almost had her, Sutherland, and then do you know what happened? I lost my nerve."

"Damn her hide indeed, sir," Patrick said without thinking.

Sir Wallace glanced at him in surprise, but said nothing. They were temporary allies, and a social lapse, a slip of the tongue, could be overlooked considering what had provoked it. "Her husband never kept her in hand," he raged quietly. "That woman has no fear when it comes to personal safety."

"No
fear at all," Patrick said, but he was going to put a healthy dose into her the minute he got her alone in the lodge.

"Excuse me," Flora said, tapping her quirt on Patrick's shoulder. "Have we forgotten something? I believe I injured my leg when I jumped down to come to my papa's aid."

"Look at her." Sir Wallace gestured wanly up at the winding road where Anne galloped against the gray shadows of the ridge. "We could be dead for all she cares."

Patrick frowned. "Dead
and
buried."

"She didn't give a damn that I took a fall."

"She didn't even know," Patrick said.

"
What about my leg?
"
Flora bellowed, her voice echoing across the barren landscape.

Her papa lifted his dejected face to look at her. "Just shut the bloody hell up for once," he said, taking the words right out of Patrick's mouth. "We shall see to your leg after we've licked our own wounds."

T
he servants of Balgeldie House could only shake their heads in consternation. They had been informed via the groom and gardener's boy of every detail of the day's peculiar events, including Mr. Sutherland touching her ladyship on a forbidden area of her anatomy in the stable, and Lady Whitehaven's return alone on her horse.

The staff noted that Lady Whitehaven had positively sprinted up the stairs to her room, the happiest they had seen her since his lordship's death. Humming to herself, she was.

They also noted that, a half-hour later, Mr. Sutherland and Sir Wallace dragged into the stables like two downtrodden warriors returning from an unsuccessful crusade.

What could it all mean?

Sandy, the eldest staff member, who considered himself something of a philosopher because he had read Plato, thought it signified the start of a social rebellion in Scot
land. He predicted that a small-
scale French Revolution was brewing under their very noses.

Graci
e scoffed openly at his theory. "As if the French Terror began
with a butler patting an aristo
crat on the bum."

"It started wi' something," Sandy said knowingly. "Wars have started over less, lass."

A bell rang on the wall above them, and Mrs. Forbes came bustl
ing into the kitchen. "Her lady
ship is wanting a bath,
tout de suite.
Heat some towels and water, and inform Mr. Sutherland that Lady Invermont has requested a plumber here by the end of the week."

"A plumber?" Sandy said in surprise.

Grace nodded. "Aye. She says we're living like primitives and—"

She subsided into silence as Patrick appeared in the doorway, his face a study in dark emotion. Everyone turned to look at him, Maggie the scullery maid quit chopping carrots, and all one could hear was t
he cheerful bubbling of cock-a-
leekie soup on the hearth, and Patrick banging the door against the wall in an entrance that could hardly be ignored.

"Well, well, well." Mrs. Forbes looked him up and down. "Home from our little misadventure, are we?"

"You're quite the man, Sutherland
,"
Sandy said, sitting back in his chair with a wicked grin.

Patrick's eyes burned as hot as smoke. "Where is she?"

Mrs. Forbes shook her head. " 'She' is the family cat who sits by the fire. If by your misusage of the word you are referring to your mistress, then
her ladyship
is upstairs awaiting her bath."

"Is she now?" he said softly, turning on his heel to the door. "Well, let me blister her bum first."

Mrs. Forbes went deathly pale, and Maggie almost stabbed Sandy in the thumb as she dropped her knife in excitement. Never in the history of Balgeldie House had a domestic dared so much, except perhaps centuries ago during the War of the Rough Wooing when a page had dressed up as young Mary Stuart in a game of charades, using a pair of imported grapefruits as breasts.

But even that had been at the request of the laird, and all in fun.

The look on Sutherland's face portended unspeakable evil. It even brought Sandy out of his chair, although it was more from a sense of anticipation than apprehension.

"You're not going to overstep your bounds again, are you, Sutherland?" he asked hopefully.