Lady Beauchamp's Proposal (4 page)

Elizabeth closed her eyes for a moment,
trying to push down another sudden surge of exasperation. Since she
had arrived at Torhaven, nothing was going smoothly. She prayed
this wasn’t a bad omen. But because she had come so far, these few
last obstacles would not stop her from succeeding. She just needed
to summon her patience.

Drawing a deep breath, she looked squarely
at Mr. Geddes. “I had not realized that Eilean Tor was on an
island. Would it be possible to hire a horse to cross the causeway
when the tide goes out? I do not fancy walking there in this
weather.”

Mr. Geddes nodded. “Och, aye, ma’am. We can
do tha’ fer you. It is only aboot a quarter of a mile across the
causeway once you get over the Tor. An’ verra safe once the tide is
far enough oot. Dinna worry. Auld Fern, our pony will get ye there
safely enough.”

Once Mr. Geddes quit the room to prepare her
tea, Elizabeth thankfully sank onto one of the chairs before the
fire. She suddenly felt very cold and was grateful for the warmth
emanating from the embers of glowing peat. She supposed the chill
sea air and her damp clothes weren’t helping matters.

She removed her black chip bonnet and tugged
off her black kid gloves. The tips of her pale fingers looked
almost blue from the cold. She chafed her hands together then held
them toward the smoky fire. Her silver wedding band, which she now
wore on her right ring finger, caught the fire’s glow. It didn’t
feel right to remove it; even though it wasn’t safe to live with
Hugh as his true wife anymore, she was still married.

How bleak to think that she would probably
never marry again.

At least I’m already used to feeling
alone.

Much to her chagrin, her eyes suddenly
brimmed with tears, but she hastily brushed them away when Mr.
Geddes returned with her tea. Self-indulgent weeping wasn’t going
to help. She needed to stay strong.

The brew that Mr. Geddes had poured for her
was weak but Elizabeth didn’t mind. She wrapped her chilled fingers
around the cup and found comfort as the warm liquid slid down her
dry throat. However, it wasn’t long before the tea and the fire
warmed her right through. In fact, she had started to feel quite
hot and perspiration prickled down her spine.

Putting aside her tea, Elizabeth rose and
crossed to one of the grimy, salt-encrusted windows. The rain had
grown heavier and the rocky promontory—the Tor as Mr. Geddes had
called it—was now obscured by low clouds that had rolled in off the
sea. She shivered; she really didn’t want to go out in this
weather. She would be soaked to the skin before she even left the
inn yard. Not only that, it suddenly struck her how wild and close
the crashing breakers were. Every now and again, a sudden shot of
spray hit a windowpane, making it rattle. She wasn’t entirely
certain that she wouldn’t be swept into the North Sea as she
crossed to Eilean Tor.

But there seemed to be no alternative option
open to her other than to grin and bear it. Perhaps looking wet and
bedraggled might even work in her favor when she arrived at the
castle, for surely the marquess would take pity on her and let her
inside. She hoped to God he wasn’t entirely heartless.

She’d just finished her tea, and was in the
process of donning her bonnet, gloves and black wool travelling
pelisse again, when Mr. Geddes came back to announce that Auld Fern
was saddled and ready to go.

“Do you think if I waited a while longer
that the rain might ease, Mr. Geddes?” she asked without any real
hope of a positive response.

“I dinna think so, Mrs. Eliott. It could
rain fer days, ye ken. An’ now would be the best time to leave
afore the tide turns again an’ it grows dark.”

Resigning herself to the fact she was going
to get wet, Elizabeth paid the innkeeper for his tea and the hire
of the pony. It was arranged that Auld Fern would be returned to
The Black Barnacle the following day—all going well with her
interview. She trusted one of the castle staff would be able to
help her out in that regard. She would also send word to Mr. Geddes
on how and when to forward her trunk.

Once all was settled, she collected up her
reticule. Then, squaring her shoulders, she marched out into the
rain. There was no turning back.

Elizabeth clung to Auld Fern’s sturdy back
as the old grey pony trudged steadfastly down to the causeway. Even
though she was an experienced rider, it took all of her strength to
maintain her seat as a strong gale ripped at her bonnet and pelisse
with icy fingers, and flung stinging rain and spray into her face.
Indeed, the roar of the wind and sea, and the biting cold were so
relentless, it wasn’t long before she was drenched and shivering
uncontrollably.

So much for her plan to arrive on the
marquess’s doorstep, refreshed and composed.

Although the distance from Torhaven to this
point was only half a mile, it had taken her the best part of a
half hour to get this far because of the rugged terrain and foul
conditions. She gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering, and
narrowed her eyes against the elements to examine the causeway
below. Thank God she was almost there.

The path ahead slid down to a wide cobbled
road that arced out to sea before winding up the steep headland to
where Eilean Tor sat. Stark and formidable, the fortress’s great
rounded keep and towering crenelated battlements dominated the
horizon. It would be completely cut off from the mainland at high
tide, the wild North Sea creating a natural, deadly moat.

Strangely, Elizabeth felt relieved, rather
than daunted. It was as if she had journeyed to the ends of the
earth. Hugh would never find her here.

Fortunately, the tide was indeed out; Mr.
Geddes had been correct in that regard. The surface of the causeway
was slick with rain but it seemed to be well-raised above
sea-level. Jagged boulders had been piled up along the edges of the
road, creating an additional barrier against the churning grey
water. Spray shot up into the air when the occasional large wave
broke against the side of the causeway, but none appeared to break
over the edge.

Reassuring herself that she would be
perfectly safe, Elizabeth kicked the pony into a trot, keen to
negotiate the last quarter of a mile that lay between her and her
destination.

The sea sucked and hissed at the sides of
the causeway as she urged Auld Fern along. She was amazed that the
marquess thought to keep his young daughter here in such a
forbidding place. It must be a lonely and austere existence for a
child who had so recently lost her mother. Her heart went out to
the little girl she was yet to meet.

She suddenly recalled Lady Airlie’s comment
that Lady Rothsburgh had met her end through accidental death at
the family home. Had the marchioness died here at Eilean Tor? The
place certainly appeared dangerous enough given its situation. An
air of tragedy seemed to hang about its very walls like the wreaths
of torn mist that scudded by.

Thankfully, Elizabeth gained the other side
of the causeway without event, and it wasn’t long before Auld Fern
was carrying her beneath the raised portcullis into the deeply
shadowed courtyard beyond. Elizabeth scanned the castle’s many
windows and apertures—but all of them, whether they were archer’s
slits, murder holes or arched mullioned windows, were dark; there
was not a single glimmer of light from within. Eilean Tor appeared
completely deserted.

Quelling a wave of unease—Elizabeth prayed
the castle wasn’t as uninhabited as it appeared—she reined in Auld
Fern and slipped from the pony’s back. She was momentarily
surprised by how weak she felt—her legs shook, and her knees nearly
buckled beneath her. She held onto the saddle for a few moments
until she felt steadier and then turned around, looking for any
kind of entrance to the castle’s interior.

As it was, the main door was easy to locate.
A massive wooden structure, hinged and studded with iron, it was
shaded by an elaborately carved stone portico in the center of the
keep. Elizabeth looped Auld Fern’s reins to a ring in one of the
walls of the barbican passage, and then after retrieving her
precious reticule from the saddlebag, she crossed the stone flagged
courtyard toward the door. Although she was soaked, at least her
letter of reference would be dry.

Nearly there, Elizabeth.
There was a
set of wide stairs before the entrance—only three in total—but the
stone was treacherously slippery with rain and moss. She lifted her
sodden skirts of black wool as she negotiated them, a ragged sigh
of relief escaping her frozen lips when she at last gained the
shelter of the portico. Although there was barely any light, she
managed to make out a large, heavy iron knocker in the center of
the door. She raised a shaking hand and hammered.

And waited. Minutes passed, but there was
not a sound or stirring of life anywhere. Her already dry throat
suddenly felt raw and constricted. She would not cry. There would
be someone within. Surely Mr. Geddes would have told her if the
marquess was not in residence.

She raised the knocker again and struck it
hard, three more times. Again she waited, but to no avail. Hot
tears pricked the back of her eyelids.

Don’t be such a baby
. There had to be
another entrance, for deliveries and the servants. And there must
be stables as well. She would just have to look about until she
found someone. She turned around and her elbow brushed against
something—a thick rope hung to the right of the door—a
bell-pull.

Cursing herself for her lack of observation,
Elizabeth grasped the rope with both hands and pulled hard. An
enormous clanging immediately started up, and she was forced to
cover her ears—it was loud enough to wake the very dead. She
decided that if that cacophony didn’t raise anyone’s attention,
nothing would.

At last, she heard the unmistakable sound of
bolts being pulled back, and then the door was thrown wide. A
bright lantern was thrust toward her face, blinding her. She raised
a hand to her eyes in a futile attempt to shield them and squinted
upwards. An extremely tall man was holding the lantern aloft; she
could discern little else about him as the intense light in her
eyes obscured her vision.

“What do you want, woman?” The man’s voice
was a low growl.

Elizabeth drew a deep breath and summoned
her most imperious voice. She had come so far and she would not be
cowed by an obnoxious servant. “I seek an audience with Lord
Rothsburgh. Is your master at home?”

“What the deuce for?”

She immediately bristled at the insolence in
the man’s tone. “I’d have a care to mind your tongue, sir. And
lower that lantern. You’re hurting my eyes.”

The light was immediately lowered, and
Elizabeth was able to see a little more of the man who seemed to be
filling up the whole doorway. He must have been at least six foot
four, with black hair that fell across one eye. She also noted that
he was informally dressed in a loose, white cambric shirt that was
open at the neck, black breeches and boots. The marquess obviously
had low standards when it came to fitting out his staff in proper
livery.

“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?”
she demanded.

The man—she assumed he was some sort of
sloppy butler or footman—let out a snort of laughter. “What on
earth for?”

She scowled and drew herself up, raising her
chin. She would not be laughed at by the hired help. “I understand
there is a vacancy for a governess. I’ve come to offer my services
to Lord Rothsburgh.”

“Have you indeed?” There was still an
annoying undercurrent of laughter in the man’s voice. Nevertheless,
he stepped aside and made a grand sweeping gesture with his free
hand. “Then by all means, come in.”

Elizabeth picked up her skirts and started
to step forward when the toe of her boot caught on an unevenly laid
flagstone on the threshold. With an unlady-like squeal she pitched
forward toward the floor—until she was deftly caught about the
waist by the vulgar butler. With a gasp of half-shock,
half-embarrassment she found her midriff was bent across his
muscular forearm, whilst her side was crushed roughly against his
wide chest. One of her hands had involuntarily fisted into the
linen sleeve of his shirt where underneath she could detect the
bulk of a sizeable, iron-hard bicep.

The scent of the man flooded her senses;
warm male, whisky and the tantalizing scent of exotically rich
soap; it reminded her of sandalwood, leather and a spicy note she
couldn’t quite place—perhaps it was cloves. She took all of this in
within the instant that she was suspended above the floor before
the man righted her. She took a step away, her cheeks flaming. “I’m
so sorry, sir. How clumsy of me. And I’ve made you all
wet…Mr.…”

The man’s arm lingered across her waist.
Perhaps he thought she would fall again. She noticed he had dark
eyes; his gaze travelled over her face, studying her. She must look
a sight.

“James,” he said, his eyes holding hers. In
the dim light she couldn’t work out if they were dark brown or
black.

She was taken aback by the intensity of his
stare and let go of his sleeve. She was relieved when he also
dropped his arm. “Well, Mr. James,” she said, hoping she didn’t
sound as breathless as she felt. “Thank you for preventing me from
making more a fool of myself, than I have done so already. Perhaps
if you could ring for your master—”

Mr. James interrupted her. “How did you get
here?” he fired at her, eyes narrowed.

“Why, Mr. Geddes from the inn lent me a
pony. She’s tethered in the barbican passage.”

“What, Auld Fern?”

“Why, yes—”

“Devil take it, woman—”

“Really, Mr. James, I must protest that you
keep calling me that. My name is Mrs. Beth Eliott.”