Taming the Scot by Eliza Knight
6
When Bronwen arrived at the breakfast room just past dawn, it was to find the sideboard filled with eggs prepared a half a dozen ways, and only one she recognized—hardboiled. Her mind was immediately swung back to the gazebo the night before when the captain had asked how she liked her eggs…
What in blazes?
“I told Cook to prepare them the usual way, and this is what she came up with.” Euan strolled up beside her, dressed in a pressed shirt, kilt and frockcoat. He stared down at the very unusual display. “We’ve got scrambled.” He pointed to a plate full of mashed up eggs that literally did look as though they’d been scrambled, then the hard-boiled eggs, which was how she had them at home all her life. “Quiche,” he said of eggs baked in a crust with other bits of things. “Fried eggs, omelets, poached, and the favorite of mine when I was a child—egg in a hole.” The latter was an egg cooked in the center of a piece of toast.
Bronwen’s mouth watered at the lavish display. But even though her body demanded that she gorge, her brain remembered all too well what had happened yesterday when she did. She wasn’t used to eating so much and had to remember to take it slow. “They all look delicious. Your cook has outdone herself. Please extend my thanks for all her efforts.”
“Indeed.” Euan leaned a hip against the sideboard, his arms crossed as he watched her with curious eyes. “But I must know which is the usual way. I was up nearly all night wracking my brain to figure it out.” This, she could tell, was a tease.
Bronwen plucked up a hard-boiled egg, rolling the firm, warm egg in her palm. “I am used to these. Boiled hard or soft.”
He grinned down at her. “Ah-ha, now it is I who gets to teach ye a lesson. Perhaps today ye ought to try the others.”
He had a point. There was likely never going to be another time in which she had so many eggs to choose from—she was looking at scarcity being a thing of fact again soon. So, she might as well live it up while she was here.
Bronwen decided to take a small bit of each and prayed the rich food didn’t have the same effect on her this morning as it had last night. She’d been so embarrassed when Euan found her in the gazebo. The place had seemed private, the perfect spot to hide from anyone who might decide to go for an after-dinner stroll. But alas, he found her almost immediately after walking right past her mess. She’d almost cried when he approached, so mortified was she.
Fortunately, he’d not seemed the wiser to it and instead acted so incredibly nice she’d almost burst into tears all over again. Saints, but her emotions felt as if they were all over the place these days.
But his genuine kindness, gentleness…she was so grateful for it. No one had ever offered her a piece of clothing off their body when she needed to wipe away tears and everything else. And he’d done so without a second thought.
They settled at the table, and she took note that he had taken his childhood favorite, eggs in a hole along with bacon, beans and mushrooms. His plate was so incredibly full that she had doubts as to whether he’d finish it. But even as she taste-tested each little thing, he not only ate his plate but a second helping and then wiped up the remnants with a piece of toast. As a man who ate so much, she wouldn’t have expected him to look the way he did. Euan was fit, strong, broad. She supposed it took a lot of food to keep up such a physique.
Bronwen wasn’t so certain she liked the scrambled eggs. They were buttery and salty, but the texture was off for her. The fried egg tasted a lot like the egg in the hole, except with the egg in the hole, she at least got a bit of toast. The omelet also had a strange rubbery texture to it that she wasn’t fond of. But the one in the pie crust…she scooped up the last crumbs and savored it, her belly full but not painfully so.
“Which did ye like the best?” Euan asked as he wiped his mouth and sat back in his chair to watch her.
When had she started thinking of him as Euan instead of the captain? It was entirely too personal, and yet she kind of liked it, which was dangerous. She shouldn’t like it, or him, at all, and yet he consumed her thoughts with his charming ways.
Bronwen set down her fork, staring at the remains left on her plate. “I think the kash.”
“The quiche.” Euan grinned.
Bronwen chuckled. “Aye, that. It was the most exciting of the bunch, I think. But your egg in a hole came in at a close second.”
“How is it that a governess such as yourself has no’ had anything but hard or soft-boiled eggs?” He sipped at a cup of coffee and watched her over the rim.
Bronwen felt her skin start to prickle. She’d not known there were so many types of eggs. Yet another mistake in a long line of them. She picked up her coffee, slowly sipping as she thought of a response.
“I suppose it is because my parents were verra boring and only served one kind. And whenever I’ve been employed, I’ve not been offered such a display as that.” She pointed to the sideboard. This was true. Though she’d never been a governess, most of her employers didn’t offer her a meal at all.
“Huh.” He nodded, accepting the answer. “I guess that is the same as me discovering other types of whisky than the one my father always served me. The man only ever offered one kind.”
Bronwen couldn’t help a soft laugh. She had an idea of where this was going, and it was a fun little glimpse into more of Euan’s family life. “Let me guess. It was no’ the best.”
Euan laughed. “Aye. He saved that for himself.”
Their plates were cleared, and they were left to sip their coffee—another drink she’d never had before, and she wasn’t certain she liked it. There was a bitter aftertaste to it, even with copious amounts of sugar and cream.
“What lessons have ye got planned for me today?” he asked, a little mischievous glint in his eyes.
Bronwen kept the groan bubbling in her throat at bay. The last thing she wanted to do was have another round of lessons. But she managed to plaster on a smile. “Today, I thought we’d discuss correspondence, conversation and manners—as we’ve discovered ye seem to be lacking some in certain areas.”
His grin widened, and he tapped his hands on the table. “Excellent. I have several letters I need to pen this morning. Shall we start in my study?”
Well, this was going better than she’d planned. If he already had letters to pen, then he would know what to write. But she also needed to maintain her position as governess—and feign authority. “That would be fine, Captain, but I’ve no’ interest in the letters ye’re penning.”
He wiggled his brows. “What if they are to a lady?”
Bronwen pursed her lips. “Then we ought to be discussing that.”
Euan rose from his chair, and she followed suit, the chair pushing against the backs of her knees and the hem of her frock catching beneath one slipper. She righted herself, hoping he’d not noticed.
“Wait, Miss Holmes.”
She paused, giving him a questioning look.
“Allow me to pull out your chair, as a gentleman would.”
Slowly, she sat back down, shifting her skirts out of the way so she’d not step on them again. She watched him come round the table as though he were a lion on the prowl and she the unsuspecting victim. Except, she suspected. Very much so. And her heart started to beat a little faster in response.
When he rounded the table and placed his hands on the back of her chair, his fingers brushed the nape of her neck with a whisper of a touch. She shivered, then held her breath. Pressed her hands against her thighs to keep her body still.
He moved the chair back effortlessly, and when she rose, he stayed in place, close. Too close. She could practically feel his breath on her hair, skating down her spine. And not in a way that scared her, even if it should have. Nay, this was all too pleasant. Slowly, she turned to face him, eyes upward. He gazed down at her, serious, intense.
She could have drowned in those blue pools. Could have stared into them for days and days. Did he think what she did? Feel what she did?
My God, she was mad. Bronwen forced herself out of whatever stupor she was languidly falling into.
“Thank ye, Captain.” Her voice was barely audible.
“My pleasure, Miss Holmes.” She longed to hear him say her first name. The only name that felt like it belonged to her—Bronwen. But that would be entirely inappropriate. And it was something saved for family, for dear female friends. Not a man she was supposed to be teaching manners to. It was the very opposite of what she’d teach him and what she should want.
Euan offered her his arm, and she was tempted to take it, but something caused her to hesitate. If her thoughts were already winding down a dangerous path, then it would make sense for her to pull back to rein them in.
“I will no’ bite,” he remarked, though the wicked grin he gave her said otherwise.
And the little frisson of delight that raced up her spine said she wouldn’t mind.
“I do no’ think it appropriate,” she said, her chin rising a notch. The truth was, she didn’t want to touch him—because she so very much wanted to. Yet she was afraid of what feeling his strong arm beneath her palm would do. Already, every nerve ending was tingling from the slight touch a moment ago. Parts of her she’d not known existed had suddenly come blooming to life.
An intense desire to flee made her limbs twitch. To run to her bedchamber, hide away, and write a missive to her cousin to send another ship. Emilia would help; she was certain of it. But she’d already taken enough charity from Emilia.
And wasn’t she more disciplined than this?
“Why no’?” Euan asked. “I offer my sisters my arm. Is that inappropriate?”
“Nay,” Bronwen said deliberately.
“So why should it be so if I offer it to ye? Can ye say that in the drawing room, when two people are in conversation and taking a turn about the room arm in arm, it is wicked?”
“Nay,” she said again, even though she didn’t know the answer. Why hadn’t the tiny handbook touched on that subject? Where she came from, people didn’t take a turn about the room. They came home from work and collapsed. What must it be like to have the energy of the idle?
“Ah-ha, then ye see, ’tis fine.” He held out his arm, wagging his elbow toward her.
Bronwen had no other choice but to accept. She laced her arm through his, her fingers resting above the wool of his jacket before she finally placed them down. An unforeseen sharp sting zinged its way up her arm, and she did a little jerk. She’d been shocked. Literally.
She stifled her surprise, and Euan laughed. “Well, that was a shock,” he said.
“Very unexpected. And perhaps the reason I was hesitating.”
“Ye can tell the future?” They crossed from the dining room into the main entry hall.
She gave a half-frown, half-smile. “If only I could see into the future, Captain. Life would look a lot different.”
“How so?” He sounded genuinely curious about her answer, not simply paying her lip service.
She bit the inside of her cheek, realizing too late she’d divulged a little too much about herself. The captain wasn’t supposed to be this interested in her. If he found out about the debt she owed, he would force her to leave. Then she’d be at the mercy of Prince and his henchmen.
A loud knock at the main door echoed in the grand foyer, and once again, Bronwen almost leapt out of her skin. Who could be banging on the door? The only answer her brain came up with was that they’d found her. They’d made it clear before that they wouldn’t stop looking for her. She’d prayed they wouldn’t make it all the way to Drum, but it seemed Prince’s reach knew no end.
“Ye seem… restless today,” Euan said with concern. “Are ye all right?”
She glared up at him. “Ye shocked me earlier. Quite literally.”
He raised his brows in surprise at her reaction. “No’ on purpose.”
She couldn’t help being nervous or irritated. Everything was so…och, but she wanted to scream sometimes.
But the knock came again, sounding almost insistent, frantic, and her mind went back to the men in Edinburgh who’d banged on the door to her flat the same way. The kind of knock that rattled the walls and shook things from their places. The knock that said she was about to be stolen away, tortured. The knock that scared the wits out of her.
“Who is at the door?” she asked, feeling the blood drain from her face. She glanced about the hall, trying to find a place to hide.
“Probably the postman.” Euan sounded so unconcerned with who could be calling, but he frowned at her all the same, clearly wondering why she was acting like a lunatic.
“The postman,” she repeated, wondering if that could be true. “He is verra…aggressive.”
Euan shrugged and led her quickly across the way and down another corridor toward his study—she suspected to ease her worry.
“Are ye no’ going to answer the door?”
“Martin will have my head if I keep doing that. I was no’ supposed to answer when ye arrived, but I happened to see ye traipsing up the path and had to know right away who ye were.”
“Oh, I see.” But she didn’t see. She kept looking over her shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever was behind the door. Begging all the heavens that Prince’s henchmen hadn’t come all the way here to find her.
They entered Euan’s study, and she let go of his arm, making a beeline for the window while he went to his desk and nearly tripping over Owen, who’d made a nice comfortable spot for himself in the center of the study.
“Pardon me,” she said, crouching to give his back a stroke before continuing to her destination.
The view was of the drive, as Euan had said, but she couldn’t get a clear sight of the front door or the steps to decipher who’d come calling.
“Miss Holmes.”
She leaned in further, attempting desperately to see until her forehead pressed against the cool glass. She could barely make out the hind end of a single horse. Well, the men wouldn’t ride on one horse alone. Possibly there was another out of view.
Euan was beside her then, leaning too, their faces close together as he tried to glimpse what she was seeing, and suddenly she felt very foolish.
“Is the postman so verra interesting?” he asked. “I’ve never seen anyone quite so fascinated by one. Have ye no postmen where ye live? Where did ye say that was again?”
Oh, goodness, she couldn’t tell him that. If she revealed where she lived, who she really was, and the deadly trouble her parents had been mired in with The Trojan gambling hell, she might as well march herself back to Edinburgh and kneel before Prince’s feet. In other words, she’d be signing her own death warrant.
At last, her body cooperated, and the blood which had previously drained from her face returned with a vengeance, only this time she could use the blush to get out of the situation.
Bronwen faked a laugh. “Oh, I’m being silly. I’m from Edinburgh. Of course, we have postmen. I wondered if they were the same.” Lord, that was a stupid excuse that made no sense.
He looked at her as if she were daft—which she expected—but that was better than looking at her as if he’d seen right through her and knew all of her secrets.
“If ye say so.” Euan shrugged. Owen joined them at the window, lifting onto his hind legs, paws on the windowsill to look out. “What do ye think, old boy?” He patted his dog’s head.
Well, perhaps he did not believe her so much after all. Best she distracted him with another botched attempt at a lesson in decorum or some other such society nonsense.
“About that letter writing session?” She kept looking out the window until the postman ran toward the horse he’d left waiting and leapt onto its back, taking off at a near gallop down the road. A cloud of dust billowed up in his wake, obscuring rider and horse alike.
“Are ye certain ye’re ready?” he asked, hooking his thumb toward the window. “Ye seem enamored.”
“I am no’.” She scowled at him, then sniffed her nose and purposefully moved away from the window. “I couldn’t care less.”
“Your attention says otherwise.” There was a note of jealousy in his tone, and she whipped around to face him.
“Are ye envious of my attention to the postman?” Bronwen’s hands went to her hips as she flashed him a challenging gaze.
Euan shrugged, looking a little sheepish. “A little, I’ll be honest.”
Bronwen laughed. She had not expected him to admit that at all. “Well then, I assure ye, your postman is nothing more than a curiosity for me, while ye are a student. I possess much interest in seeing to your education. So, let us proceed. Take out a piece of foolscap and progress with letter writing.”
“All right.” The captain sat at his desk, pulled out his writing utensils and stared at her. “What shall I write first?”
Bronwen could hardly breathe for the way he looked at her. So strong behind his desk, taking ownership of his space and command of the quill. Did he realize how very handsome he was with the barest hint of stubble on his face, as though he’d shaved the night before and let it grow slightly?
“Any ideas,” he urged, and she realized how long it had been she’d remained silent.
My God, get it together!
Bronwen cleared her throat, folding her hands behind her and started to pace as she expected someone deep in thought would do. “Are there any ladies who have piqued your interest before that ye want to see when ye go to town?” Please say nay. Och, nay, say aye!
“Nay.”
Bloody hell. The handbook spoke specifically about ladies a man had an interest in. And that he should write her a polite note inquiring upon a visitation, which would open the doors to communication and potential courting.
Well, she supposed she’d have to fall back on the book’s reliable other tools. “Then let us pretend, Captain, that there is a lass who has piqued your interest, and ye have great wish to see her when ye get to Edinburgh.”
“All right.” He wiggled his brows at her and flashed a conspiratorial smile. “This is like the arrival for a call we did yesterday.”
“Indeed it is.” Bronwen forced her gaze away from him. It wouldn’t do for her to get sidetracked by looking at him again. He was so very…distractible.
“I am ready. How should I address her? Dear? Dearest? My dear?”
Bronwen had no earthly clue. What had the book said? Och, but she couldn’t remember. The simplest, that was what she’d have to choose. “I should think ‘dear’ since ye are no’ so well acquainted with the lady, and then her proper name.”
“All right.” He bent over the letter, strong fingers taking possession of the quill. The bones and muscles of his hand flexed and rippled as he wrote. “‘Dear Miss Holmes.’”
That stopped her in her pacing tracks. She whirled to face him, bumping into Owen, who she’d not realized had been following her back and forth. “Nay, ye’re no’ to write to me.”
“Why no’?”
What was a good reason? “Because I have no’ given ye permission to write to me.”
Euan let out a loud, short laugh. He pressed the quill back into the inkwell. “But this is a game of pretend. I am playing ye have. And what’s this with permission? Must I gain a ladies’ permission to write to her before I do? How’s a man to make any headway if she says nay as ye have?”
“It is a tricky thing, Captain, to be sure.” One in which Bronwen again had no idea how to answer and would have to bluff her way out of it—which she was quite good at doing.
“Then let me pretend, at least for this lesson, and we can work on how to get around a woman denying permission later?”
She let out a huff of a sigh. “Fine.”
“‘Dear Miss Holmes.’” Why did his voice have to be so cheery when he said it?
The sound of the quill scratching on the paper filled the room, even as she inched her way back to the window, a feeling of unease in her limbs. Looking out, she had the feeling of being watched. Owen nudged her thigh, and she rested her hand on his head, gaining some measure of comfort from the animal. Still, it felt as if the hell’s henchmen were waiting to leap out from their hiding places to point at her and shout, “There she is, we’ve found her!”
“What’s next?” Euan asked, pulling her from the anxiety-ridden thoughts.
Bronwen turned to the window, finding his expectant gaze on her. Owen gave her fingers a little lick, and she scratched him behind his ears.
“Since the lesson was originally for ye to write to a lady in town ye had an interest in seeing, I suppose we should continue along those lines because at some point, hopefully, ye will need to know. And we shall pretend that there is another Miss Holmes there waiting for ye.”
Euan feigned a pout. “I think I should be offended at your disinterest, Miss Holmes.”
“Ye should be nothing where I am concerned.”
“Impossible.” But before she could give him a tart reply, he said, “All right, and so, I should say, ‘Dear Miss Holmes, might I have permission to call on ye Saturday next?’”
“That would do.”
“No flattery?” He cocked his head to the side.
“A little flattery could no’ hurt.” She’d been admired once, at barely thirteen. The son of the man who delivered their milk liked to knock on the door and hand her the bottle. One time, their fingers touched, and Bronwen thought it the most romantic thing that had ever happened—until Euan had given her his cravat in the garden.
She couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to be courted by a man like Euan.
She flicked her gaze toward the captain. Was that why she’d reacted so hotly to his touch? Because to her, that slight graze meant so much more than words?
“How’s this? ‘Dear Miss Holmes, I could no’ help but admire your gumption upon our first meeting, and I am driven to distraction wanting to know what ye think when ye look out the window. There’s such a whimsical note about ye that I can’t help but to find fascinating. Might I have permission to call on ye Saturday next?’”
Bronwen was stunned into silence. They were pretending, only pretending. This wasn’t real. Except he’d used real things in his letter, and the whole time he’d read the words, he’d locked his eyes on hers. This was incredibly unfair, and she should be put out that he wasn’t taking the lesson seriously. Why was her heart beating so fast? Her throat so dry? She took up a frantic patting of Owen’s head, and the dog slinked away, irritated with her.
“I should think no’.” She lifted her chin and stared down at him. It wouldn’t do for anything to develop between the two of them. It was impossible. And went against the reason he’d put an advert in the paper. He wanted someone refined, not a pauper. “I do no’ know a single lass that would read your letter and invite ye over. Ye sound overeager and…obsessive.”
“Obsessive?”
“Watching her like a hunter stalking his prey. Driven to distraction by your thoughts. These are no’ flattering.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Ah, perhaps I am a bit too fanatical in waxing about my passions.” He leaned back in his chair, forearms casually resting on the armrests of his chair.
“Passion?” she practically spat the word. “We hardly know one another.”
A twinkle was in his eye, the corner of his lip twitching as if he’d caught her at something, but other than those tells, he looked perfectly serious. “This is pretend, is it no’? I was merely pretending about a different Miss Holmes.”
Aye, pretend. She had to remember that and remind her heart, which pounded so hard against her ribs she was certain they would crack.
This wasn’t going well at all, and at this rate, she’d be tossed out by noon. She had to pull it together. To somehow untangle the mess she’d made here. “Well, before ye try to figure out the right way to write a lady ye’ve known for months, ye’d best do well with writing a lady ye’ve just met. Tell her of your day, and then give her one compliment.”
“What sort of compliment should I give? That her gown did wonders for her figure?”
Bronwen couldn’t help but look down at the simple ivory frock she had on today. She had no figure to speak of. Months without proper nutrition had left her thin and waifish. Not that she’d had any sort of hips or bosom before. She took after her mother in that respect.
She plucked at nothing on her skirt to pretend she wasn’t affected by his words or that she hadn’t been looking at her own body, but merely whatever it was marring the white muslin.
“How about ye admired the ribbons of her bonnet and that they brought out the color of her eyes, Captain? Let’s keep it decent.”
“All right. ‘Dear Miss Holmes, I had the pleasure of riding in Charlotte’s Square today, but I must say the hour was quite dull without your presence. None of the other lasses had a bonnet as bonnie as yours. And I admired the way the ribbons brought out the blue in your gray eyes. Might I have the pleasure of calling on ye, Saturday next?’”
Bronwen swallowed around the lump in her throat. That letter was perfect, except for he’d noticed her eyes were gray. She had to remember he was writing about a different Miss Holmes—one that sounded so very much like her. It was making her feel and think things that would never be?
She cleared her throat. “That will do quite nicely. I think any lass to receive it would be well pleased.”
“And how do I close?” He dipped the quill in the inkwell with precision, then paused to await her instruction.
“With your name.” Simple and evasive. “Now, if ye’ll excuse me, I need some air.” Bronwen rushed from the study out to the garden, which was quickly becoming a place of refuge for her.
