One Night with the Laird. Nicola CornickЧитать онлайн книгу.
more than she wanted him to see.
She turned a shoulder to him and addressed the landlord instead.
“I would like some of your beef stew and a glass of wine, please.” She flicked a glance at the table. “I will finish this bottle my husband has started—” She shot Jack a look. “Unless he wishes to have it all to himself.”
“I am drinking water,” Jack said, “but you are welcome to share if your taste runs to it.”
“Water?” Mairi stared at him, her antagonism briefly forgotten. It was so incongruous. She would have had him down as a man who drank nothing but the best claret and brandy.
Jack shrugged. There was an element of discomfort in his demeanor. “Riding is thirsty work,” he said. He spoke dismissively and yet Mairi had the impression that there was a great deal more behind the words. More that he was not prepared to disclose. After a moment he raised his brows in quizzical enquiry and she blushed to realize she was still staring.
“Landlord,” she said hastily, “I would like to be taken to my room, please, and to have some hot water sent up for washing.” She paused as an unwelcome thought struck her and she spun around to face Jack again. “I trust you have not moved into my bedchamber as well, sir?”
A devilish light sprang up in Jack’s eyes. “It was tempting,” he drawled, his voice dropping several tones so that it rubbed across her senses like rough velvet, “but I was waiting for you to invite me, darling.”
A wholly inappropriate wave of heat washed over Mairi, rushing through her veins. Her knees weakened and she almost slumped into the armchair, remembering only at the last moment that they had company in the room and that she should be slapping his face—not falling into his arms.
“You’ll have a long wait, then,” she said. “I suggest that you should have your own chamber. Then there will at least be space in there for you and your vastly inflated opinion of yourself.” She gave him a cool little smile. She was proud of that smile. It was diametrically opposed to the way she was feeling inside.
“I would like you gone from here when I return, if you please,” she said. “Frazer—” She turned to the steward. “If you could escort Mr. Rutherford to the part of the inn that is farthest away from me...”
“No need for an escort,” Jack murmured. “I can find my own way.” He stood up, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair and slinging it over his shoulder. He sketched her a bow that had nothing of deference in it. “Your servant, madam.”
The landlord, scratching his head over the eccentric ways of the aristocracy, led Mairi up the inn’s wide stair to the landing and indicated the third room on the right. It was big and well appointed, and Mairi’s traveling bags were already standing waiting at the side of the bed. Her maid, Jessie, a small dark girl who was the youngest of Frazer’s ten children, was busy unpacking and shaking out a gown for the following day.
Mairi sat down abruptly on the side of the bed. She realized she was trembling a little and she was not quite sure why. She could deal with Jack Rutherford. She could deal with most things. That was one thing her marriage and its scandalous aftermath had taught her.
Jessie was chattering, which was a good thing because it distracted her. Unlike her father, Jessie was not in the least silent and austere. “It’s no’ that bad, this inn,” she said. “Leastways it’s clean and comfortable.”
“The clientele leaves something to be desired,” Mairi murmured.
“I hear there’s a fine gentleman staying.” Jessie was full of the news. “Cousin to Lord Methven. Rich and handsome, they say. The kitchen girls are all hot for him.”
“I’m sure he’ll be delighted to hear it,” Mairi said.
Jessie stood staring mistily into space, Mairi’s gown forgotten in her hands. “They say he made a fortune in India,” she said. “Trading in spices and the like.”
“It was Canada,” Mairi said, sighing. “Trading in timber.” She did not know much about Jack’s background, but she did know that he had made his first fortune before he was five and twenty and his second after he had returned to Scotland, importing luxury goods through the port of Leith.
“They say that he is a master swordsman and a dangerous rake—” Jessie rolled the word around her tongue with fervor. “And that he owns a huge estate over Glen Calder way.”
“All of which makes him nigh on irresistible,” Mairi said sarcastically. “Is that my yellow muslin you are crushing in your hands?”
Jessie looked down. “Och, yes. I’ll have it pressed for you before tomorrow, madam.”
“Thank you,” Mairi said.
By the time she went back down to the parlor, the fire had been built up and a glass of claret poured for her. The same maidservant, sulky this time, brought in a plate of beef stew. Of Jack Rutherford there was no sign. Mairi knew she should have been glad, and she was. But she also felt a tiny seed of disappointment, and it was this that disturbed her more than anything.
She did not linger after her meal but went out into the passageway intent on retiring to her chamber to read. Her head was a little fuzzy from tiredness and from the good red wine, and at the bottom of the stair she paused, clutching the newel post for support. The door to the taproom was open a crack and she peeped in. Through the fug of smoke and the crush of people, she could see Jack Rutherford. He was sitting at a table to the left of the fire, playing cribbage with three other men, a tankard on the table in front of him. Mairi wondered whether it contained more water or if Jack had moved on to something stronger.
As she watched, there was a roar from the crowd as Jack won the game. Several men slapped him on the back and he grinned, lifting the pewter cup to his lips. Mairi watched his throat move as swallowed, slamming the empty tankard down and calling for another round for everyone, largesse that was greeted with another roar of approval. There was a pile of silver coin by his elbow that was considerably larger than the pile at the side of any of the other players; as she watched Jack scooped up a handful of silver and passed it over to the landlord in return for the new tankards of ale that even now were overflowing onto the table. It was a raucous, good-humored gathering and Mairi felt a small pang of envy. Jack was welcomed into the easy camaraderie of the taproom and not just because of his money.
One of the inn servants passed her with a murmured word of apology; the taproom door creaked a little on its hinges and Jack looked up from his game. For a moment their eyes met; then a spark of mockery came into his and he raised his glass to her in mocking toast. Mairi shot away up the stairs, furious with herself for being caught staring.
She saw no more of Jack that night and fell asleep quickly, lulled by the quiet lap of the waves on the shore of the loch. By the time she arose for breakfast, Jack had already set out on his journey to Methven. Mr. Rutherford was riding, the serving girl said, with his luggage following on behind. It meant that he would be a great deal quicker than Mairi was on the road and she could only be grateful to be spared an endless procession of nights staying in the same inns as Jack was.
When Frazer came out to the carriage, he had a face as long and dark as a wet day in Edinburgh.
“What on earth is the matter?” Mairi asked, as the steward stowed his purse in the strongbox beneath her seat.
Frazer’s mouth turned down even farther. “The landlord would take no money for our stay,” he said. “The entire bill had already been settled.”
He handed her a note.
Mairi had never seen Jack Rutherford’s writing, but she had no difficulty now in identifying the careless black scrawl as his.
“A gentleman always pays,” the note ran.
Mairi dropped the letter on the seat beside her. She remembered taunting Jack the previous night when he had appropriated her parlor. She remembered she had said he wanted the comforts that only money could buy. She also remembered