The Master Of Strathburn (3 page)

Her father had agreed to the arrangement immediately. He was clearly pleased that Lady Strathburn had developed an apparent interest in her because it meant she would be spending a considerable amount of time within the castle instead of hiding away in the factor’s allocated residence, the Gate-House.

And therein was the rub. Jessie strongly suspected her father still harboured the unrealistic hope that Simon Grant may take a romantic interest in her, and that perhaps in time she might make a well-placed marriage. But Jessie knew this would never happen—for two reasons. Firstly, she had nothing to recommend her. A penniless, untitled lass was not marriage material for the son of the Earl of Strathburn. And secondly, but most importantly, she couldn’t stand the man.

Jessie hadn’t yet told her father that Simon’s interest in her was not the least bit seemly or well-intentioned. He’d had enough stress over the past year and worrying about her well-being was the last thing he needed.

But today’s encounter with Simon had been the most invasive by far. Beneath her irritation, Jessie realised she was even a little bit frightened. Right at this moment, fear prickled along her skin and her heart was hammering uncomfortably against her ribs. Her instincts told her to keep well back from the desk, out of Simon Grant’s immediate reach. She really couldn’t wait to quit the library.

‘Mmm,
The Iliad
, the finest example of the epic poem I do believe. However I see this copy is in ancient Greek. Are you planning on translating it for my father, Miss Munroe?’ Simon’s grey eyes swept over her again, a questioning smile curving his thin lips.

Of course I am. We kept scores of indecipherable texts in ancient languages in Dunraven’s library.
Jessie bit her tongue to stop the retort escaping.
Be polite, Jessie. You dinna want to provoke him.
‘I’m afraid that my linguistic talents dinna extend to that language,’ she at last admitted through tight lips. ‘I wasna aware that it was written in Greek…’

Simon’s cool, calculating gaze dropped to her mouth. ‘I am adept with the tongue, Miss Munroe. I would be delighted to improve your talents in that area, if you are so inclined.’

When it’s a cold day in hell.
Jessie willed herself to ignore Simon’s double entendre, but to her chagrin, her cheeks flushed hotly with both indignation and embarrassment. ‘I’m sure that will no’ be necessary, sir,’ she replied, amazed that her voice was steady. ‘But perhaps you know of another copy. An English version?’ If she could encourage him to look in the shelves, perhaps he would be diverted enough for her to beat a hasty retreat back to the drawing room where Lord Strathburn was waiting.

Simon closed the book and wandered around the desk to the side closest to Jessie. He was decidedly too close for her liking now. He leaned his hip against the desk and tapped a finger against his lower lip. ‘I may have a copy myself. In my private collection. Perhaps you could accompany me upstairs to my rooms to help me look for it?’

Jessie’s stomach lurched with revulsion. Steeling herself to remain impassive in the face of such an inappropriate, indeed, lurid suggestion was proving no mean feat. Nevertheless, she lifted her chin and said, ‘Alas, I fear that I have been far too long already, an’ I’m keeping Lord Strathburn waiting.’ Her gaze darted to the desk as she weighed up the risk of taking the Greek version of
The Iliad
versus leaving it.

Simon’s mouth curved into a knowing smile and he placed a proprietorial hand on the dusty cover of the book. He knew she wouldn’t go back to his father empty-handed.

Damn him for this cat and mouse game he was playing.
He was daring her to come closer to take it.

Jessie changed tack. ‘Perhaps I shall just take the other book Lord Strathburn requested. If ye will excuse me, sir.’ She bobbed a quick curtsy before crossing to the nearest bookshelf and pulled out a random volume. Shakespeare’s
Macbeth
. It would have to do.

She was about to turn and head for the door when she felt Simon behind her.
Stupid, stupid.
How thoughtless of her not to have kept her eye on him. A cold frisson of unease swept through her, chilling her to the very bone.

Simon leaned over her shoulder. ‘
Macbeth
. Another tale of great passion and violence.’ He was so close that Jessie could feel the brush of his breath against the exposed nape of her neck. The sour odour of the claret he had partaken with his lunch still lingered and nausea roiled. She hated feeling so helpless—frozen, like a trapped deer, too afraid to move or breathe. Where was her anger, now that she needed it?

A lock of her hair had escaped a pin and had fallen forward onto her cheek. At these close quarters, Simon had obviously noticed it also. He reached out and tucked it back behind her ear, his long fingers then trailing slowly down her neck before grasping her shoulder. ‘In the words of Macbeth,
‘Let not light see my black and dark desires’
,’ he whispered into her ear.

Jessie’s shudder was involuntary. Trapped against the bookcase, she did not dare to turn around.

‘Are you cold, Miss Munroe?’

Simon’s question prompted a sudden idea to effect an escape. ‘I’m a wee chill perhaps, sir. I do hope I’m no’ catching a cold,’ she replied and sniffed, loudly.

To Jessie’s relief, her ploy worked. Simon immediately took several steps away from her, leaving her room to safely turn around without brushing against him. Lady Strathburn had alluded to her on more than one occasion that Simon had a delicate constitution. Jessie had correctly surmised that Simon would be particular about not contracting sickness. With
Macbeth
in hand, she hurried to the library door.

As she grasped the doorknob, she turned her head to make sure Simon wasn’t following. Thankfully, he had retreated to one of the window embrasures, his attention seemingly claimed by the view of Loch Kilburn.

Do no’ linger, Jessie. Go
. She quietly pulled the door open. But then it creaked.

Damn.

Simon glanced over his shoulder at her; his grey eyes held a distinct, predatory gleam.
A wolf’s stare.
Jessie’s whole body instinctively recoiled and she stumbled over the threshold.

‘Good day, Jessie,’ she heard him murmur as she closed the door. She didn’t bother to reply. An unwanted book in her hand, and her heart in her mouth, she then all but fled back to the drawing room.

* * *

When Simon heard the door close, he sat in the window seat then drew the curtains, his erection straining painfully against his breeches. The maids wouldn’t be in to tend the fire and light the candles for at least an hour or two, so he should remain undisturbed.

He’d thought that slaking his lust on the young, red-headed lass he’d come across in the fields, on a lonely country lane just outside of Nethy Bridge yesterday evening, would dull his appetite for Jessie. But if anything, it had just made the ache in his loins all the worse, especially when he recalled how the girl had struggled until he’d eventually had to knock her out. He liked it when they fought back. He had no doubt that the high-and-mighty Jessie Munroe would try to resist him too.

The throbbing in his groin was now urgent. He swiftly unbuttoned the front of his black velvet breeches and closed his eyes. As the dampness of his release spread into his silk handkerchief, he shuddered and smiled with a mixture of satisfaction and anticipation. As luck would have it, Jessie’s father was leaving tomorrow to collect rents and inspect the entirety of the Strathburn estate before winter descended. At last his pretty Jezebel would be alone. He would be able to do whatever he wished.

* * *

On Jessie’s return to the drawing room, it was to find Lord Strathburn fast asleep in his favourite chair before the fire. Beside him on the hearthrug lay his devoted deerhound, Caesar. Neither of them stirred at her entry. She had obviously been too long in the library; she hoped the earl wouldn’t be too annoyed with her when he woke.

A half drunk cup of tea sat on a small cherrywood table beside him. The thought of having a cup to calm her jangled nerves was indeed tempting—her hands trembled and her stomach still churned—but the risk of being caught taking such a liberty by the countess made her think better of it. She really didn’t want to jeopardise her father’s position here.

With a shaky sigh, she sank onto the window seat, discarding
Macbeth
onto the brocade cushion beside her. Outside, the mirror-like surface of Loch Kilburn reflected the fiery wooded braes and azure blue sky. It was the type of autumn day just perfect for riding.

But not for her. Not any more. Gone were the days when she could saddle Blaeberry whenever she liked to ride out and explore the countryside. The longing to be as free as the eagle she could see swooping over the loch was suddenly so acute, tears misted her vision. Perhaps early tomorrow, before Lady Strathburn made a claim on her time, she could sneak away for a ride. It was also the day that her father would be leaving. The thought passed like a dark cloud across her mind.

The idea of spending even a full day alone at Lochrose without her father’s protection, let alone a fortnight, made her inwardly shudder, especially after Simon’s lecherous conduct in the library just now. But to make matters worse—and despite her protestations—her father had arranged for her to stay up at the castle during his absence. It would be almost impossible to avoid Simon. Cold dread snaked down her spine at the thought of the coming days. And nights. She didn’t know if she would be able to tolerate the man’s unwanted attentions for much longer.

But stand it she must, for the sake of her father. She didn’t have the heart to tell him about Simon’s advances, just when his spirits seemed so much improved. Only just this morning, during breakfast, he had reported with a wide smile that the earl was a most canny and fair employer. Jessie knew that if she did tell her father what was really going on, he would be infuriated with the earl’s son and would want to leave here straightaway. And then what would they do?

Positions such as this were few and far between, and destitution was not an inviting prospect. With a heavy sigh, Jessie dashed away her useless tears and firmed her resolve. Regardless of how unpleasant life was at Lochrose, she would just have to swallow her frustrations and somehow soldier on.

Glancing over to Lord Strathburn, she could see he was still snoring quietly. His head rested against the side of his leather wing back chair and a woollen blanket was draped over his knees. Despite her own cares, she smiled softly. He was a charming man—nothing at all like his son—and was perhaps only a little older in years than her father. But he seemed at least twenty years older in many other ways.

The castle’s cook, Mrs MacMillan, had recounted the sad story of the earl’s decline over tea and scones in the kitchen on Jessie’s first morning at Lochrose.

‘The good man never recovered after his eldest son, Robert, rode out for the Young Pretender at Culloden. It broke his heart when the young master chose to leave. Lord Strathburn threatened to disinherit him, ye ken. He dinna really have any other choice. The entire estate could verra well have been forfeited to the Crown if his lordship hadna declared which side of the fence he stood on. Now Mr Grant will most likely get everything when the earl passes, which I’m sure pleases her ladyship no end.’ She had then winked at Jessie in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘Now ye dinna hear that from me, lassie.’

‘I apologise if this question seems indelicate, Mrs MacMillan but … does the family know wha’ became of Lord Lochrose at Culloden?’ Jessie had asked, curious about the young nobleman’s fate. ‘I have heard it was a terrible battle.’

Mrs MacMillan patted her arm with a floury hand. ‘Och, it’s all right to ask, lassie. It’s no’ often talked about here, ye ken, given what passed between Robert an’ his father was such a tragedy—the way they fell out wi’ each other. Rumour has it tha’ the canny wee devil managed to escape and leave Scotland, but as to where he ended up or how he is after all this time, nobody kens. I’m certain his lordship would be verra happy to have Robert home once more. But unless the Sassenachs take the price off his head, he willna be able to set foot on Scottish soil again. Better to live in exile than end up meeting the same fate as poor Fraser of Lovat.’

Jessie had to agree. Although she had only been nine years old at the time, she still recalled how shocked her father had been when Fraser of Lovat, the chief of one of their neighbouring clans, had been beheaded at the Tower of London in 1747 for his role in the Rebellion. The English did not easily forgive or forget Scottish traitors. In recent times, she had heard of pardons being granted in rare instances—young MacDonald of Clanranald had been one such case. But by and large, acts of clemency were few and far between.

‘But thank heaven fer small mercies.’ Mrs MacMillan had given Jessie a warm smile. ‘I thank the Lord that yer father has come. It’s aboot time that Lord Strathburn passed the running of things over to a manager, before Lady Strathburn and Mr Grant go through the family’s entire fortune—although ye never heard me say tha’. It never used to be this way, ye ken.’

Mrs MacMillan, obviously a keen orator, refilled their teacups at this point before she continued to reminisce. ‘It seems like only yesterday tha’ Robert, the young master, was here. A fine man in the making he was. He took after his lordship, in looks and temper, ye ken. Charming an’ full o’ good humour. Fair minded wi’ the staff and tenants too. A natural born leader. Everyone thought verra well o’ him.’ Her brown eyes suddenly twinkled. ‘A bonnie man to look at too, he was. Och, all the lassies were turning their heads for Lord Lochrose. Why he even made an old piece o’ mutton like me flush an’ jibber when he looked my way. Quite the rake he would ha’ been. If he’d stayed, he’d be wed by now to be sure, with a few wee bairns underfoot.’

She then grasped Jessie’s hand and looked her in the eye, suddenly serious. ‘Now Mr Grant, he’s quite a different kettle o’ fish. Ye must needs be careful around him. If he likes the look of a bonnie lassie such as yerself … weel let’s just say, the other female staff have dubbed him ‘Master of the Wandering Hands’ if ye ken wha’ I mean. Although you have yer father here so he may no’ think it wise to try any such nonsense with you.’