The Legendary Lord Page 2

  “I don’t know anyone named Mrs. Goatsocks,” he ground out.

  “Of course you don’t. She’s my chaperone.”

  That did it. Christian spun the woman away. She whirled to face him, her bright crystal-green eyes flashing. He eyed her up and down. She was actually more beautiful than he’d first thought. Stunning, if truth be told. High cheekbones, a delicate jaw, and the body of a goddess. But that didn’t make up for the trespassing. And he’d seen many beautiful women before. Perhaps he had trouble speaking to them, but he’d seen them. This one needed to explain herself. Immediately.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and eyed her down the length of his nose. “So thieves have chaperones, do they?”

  She rubbed her wrist and gave him a condemning glare. The dog sat in between them and glanced back and forth, as if he were watching a fascinating game of battledore and shuttlecock.

  “I told you, I’m not a thief, and Mr. Fergus led me to believe that you are a gentleman.” She sneered the last word.

  “Mr. Fergus takes care of this house and the accompanying property. I don’t pay him to make assessments of my character. Now finish telling me who you are, and don’t lie to me. Because if I don’t believe you, I may still throw you outside.”

  Her eyes widened. “According to Mr. Fergus, there could be wolves out there.” She sounded more affronted than frightened.

  “He’s right about that,” Christian replied. “I suggest you make your story extremely convincing.”

  Two black brows snapped together over eyes filled with anger. She glanced about as if looking for another potential weapon. Christian crossed his feet at the ankles and leaned back against the doorjamb. “There’s a longbow on the wall in the other bedchamber.” He didn’t uncross his arms. “But you’ll have to get by me to get it. And we’re staying right here until I’m satisfied.” He gave her a challenging glare.

  She gasped and put her hand to her throat. Then she rushed back over to the bed and pulled the patchwork quilt off of it. She wrapped it around her back and shoulders, covering herself completely. She sucked in air through her nostrils, and Christian could tell she struggled with her next words.

  Her voice quavered slightly. “Sir, I must inform you that I am the daughter of the Earl of Highfield, and if you intend to dishonor me—”

  Christian’s laughter stopped her. She snapped her mouth shut and glared at him. “What is funny about that?”

  He gave her a tight smile. “I have no intention of dishonoring you, Miss Thief. But I don’t care if your uncle is the pope, which I doubt, by the by, given the manner in which you’re dressed. If you don’t explain your presence in my house right now, your father will have to come fetch you from a pile of snow in Scotland, and something tells me he’s not nearby at present.”

  After delivering that little speech, Christian braced both elbows against the door and eyed her carefully. “Give me one good reason to allow you to stay.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sarah glared at the man resting casually against the bedchamber door, blocking her only chance at escape. Though where she’d escape to, she had no idea. The thought of the snowy, dark, wolf-filled Scottish woods held little appeal. She considered attempting to overpower him but quickly discarded that notion. She’d wrestled with her brother upon occasion when they were younger, and Hart had always won. This man was at least Hart’s size, if not bigger. She had no chance of beating him at hand-to-hand combat. Especially now that she’d been divested of her sword.

  Very well. She had no choice but to stay here and reason with him. She eyed him up and down. He had the voice of a gentleman, indeed. Though she was somewhat surprised to hear that it was the voice of an English gentleman. Mr. Fergus was Scottish, and she’d simply assumed his master was as well.

  Yes. This man was clearly English, and his accent indicated he had some breeding, but he was clearly not of the Quality. The man himself was wearing coarse wool trousers, a rough linen shirt with a rumpled white cravat, and a simple black overcoat. His boots looked expensively made, but they were the only things he wore that appeared to be of any value. Still, she suspected they were not from the fashionable Hoby’s in St. James’s.

  It was true that she herself was dressed as a maid, but that was for a very good (or very bad, depending upon how one interpreted the matter) reason. This man, whoever he was, had threatened to toss her out in the snow. Twice. He couldn’t possibly be a gentleman. A gentleman would have instantly recognized her father’s name. A gentleman would have immediately inquired after her health and safety. A gentleman wouldn’t have threatened to feed her to wolves.

  She eyed him up and down again. What did she expect from a man like this? A man who lived in a tiny house in Scotland and had one servant to his name? Despite Mr. Fergus’s assurance, clearly Master Christian here—if indeed that was with whom she was dealing—was a barbarian. Not only was he sporting several days’ growth of beard, he looked grimy and smelled as if he’d been sleeping in a barn.

  No. He was no gentleman. He was a ruffian. Albeit a somewhat handsome ruffian. His nose was straight. His jaw was square. His shoulders were broad. Was he Master Christian? If so, she’d been mistaken about his age. But she was quickly beginning to suspect that the tall, arrogant blond man with the crystal-blue eyes was probably the son or some poor relation of Master Christian. There was no help for it, however. She would have to tell him her name. She cleared her throat. “I’m Lady Sarah Highgate, daughter of the Earl of Highfield.”

  The man glanced at the dog as if he might be able to verify her identity.

  “And what are you doing in my house, Lady Sarah Highgate, daughter of the Earl of Highfield?”

  Nervousness made her voice far harsher than she intended it to be. “In London people take such titles quite seriously,” she informed him, clutching the quilt tightly around her shoulders.

  “I’m certain they do. Too bad for you that we’re in Scotland.”

  Her mouth nearly dropped open. “But I’m Lady Sarah…”

  “You might try explaining that to the wolves. I’m certain they will be impressed.”

  Sarah’s face heated. He was right. She hated the pomposity with which she’d spoken. She never used her title for any special favors in London. But here, here she was frightened and uncertain of herself, uncertain of this man. She needed to use whatever means she had at her disposal to convince him not to toss her out on her ear, and she was quickly coming to realize that the things that mattered most in her world apparently made little difference in the Scottish Highlands. She decided to try a different tactic. “Have you never been to London?”

  “Not when I can help it,” he replied vaguely, “and you still haven’t answered my question.”

  Her virtue being somewhat assured, Sarah allowed the quilt to drop from her shoulders. She heaped it back onto the bed sheepishly. She hadn’t answered him because she hadn’t yet decided how to answer him. The truth was ridiculous, but a lie might be exceedingly more so. In the end, she decided to tell the truth. Her former governess, Miss Hawthorne, would demand it. Besides, she’d already told Mr. Fergus the truth. Mr. Fergus had been far more sympathetic and far easier to trust, of course. But when he returned, he’d repeat it and contradict any lies she might dream up now. Finally, she decided to tell the truth because of her own innate sense of fairness. She was clearly in the wrong here. She had broken into his home, even if Mr. Fergus had eventually invited her to stay. And she had subsequently attempted to attack this man with his own sword. She felt an adequate sense of chagrin. She was not chagrin-less.

  She straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat, but she did not meet his eyes. She would answer his questions truthfully, but there was no need to blurt out the entire story.

  “My father owns a hunting lodge nearby,” she said evenly.

  “But why are you here?”

  All right. She had to bend the truth a bit. “On … holiday?” Bother. She hadn’t meant it to
sound like a question. She was obviously rubbish at lying.

  “On holiday, dressed like a maid?” Skepticism positively dripped from his deep voice.

  Double bother. That was a difficult question to answer without revealing more details.

  She smoothed her hands over the white apron she hadn’t remembered to remove when she’d lain down for her nap. “I didn’t wish anyone to know I left London.”

  “You left London?”

  “Yes.”

  “Secretly?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you came to Scotland?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  She tugged at the wide white collar of her plain gray gown. “Be … cause.” Her face heated again. “Because I had to get away, only…”

  He waited, watching her for a few moments of silence before prompting, “Only?”

  She pressed a clammy hand to her forehead. “Only I’ve never been here before and the direction I was given wasn’t entirely accurate and I picked the wrong house.”

  A few moments ticked by before she could tell he was struggling not to laugh. The corners of his mouth turned up and his firmly molded lips shook suspiciously.

  “You mistook my house for your father’s?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Her cheeks were flaming now. She pushed at the rug with the tip of her stockinged toe.

  “I take it your father was not the one who gave you the direction?”

  “No, I … er … that is … my maid bribed my father’s valet for the information, and—”

  “Bribed?” His blond eyebrows snapped together. “Am I to understand your father didn’t allow you to come here?”

  She bit her lip but forced herself to meet his eyes. Bother. Bother. Bother. She’d have to come out with it. “That’s correct. The truth is I ran away.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Christian eyed the young woman carefully. With her upper-crust English accent and haughty airs, there was little chance she was truly a servant, despite her clothing. She was telling the truth. At least part of it. The Earl of Highfield did have a hunting lodge near here. The two men had hunted together on more than one occasion through the years. And Highfield had a family he’d never brought with him to Scotland. Christian seemed to recall him mentioning a daughter who would be about this woman’s age. He couldn’t recall if her name was Sarah, but he’d met the countess in London a time or two, and while she was nowhere near as gorgeous as her daughter, there was certainly a resemblance. Yes, Christian had no doubt that Highfield’s daughter was standing in front of him right now. She was telling the truth about that. But he wasn’t through questioning her yet.

  He narrowed his eyes on her. “Why didn’t you leave my house when you discovered your mistake?”

  “We did,” she replied. “But we got lost in the forest and it was getting dark, so we came back to spend just one night. We met Mr. Fergus and he kindly offered to show us the way the next morning.”

  “But?”

  Color continued to ride high in her cheeks. “But on the way back into the house, Mrs. Goatsocks tripped over a branch hidden in the snow and twisted her ankle and—”

  “Fergus took her to town while you remained here?” Christian finished for her.

  She nodded. “He said the only doctor nearby was the one in town. I’m sorry for the trouble, Mr.… What is your surname?”

  “Forester. Christian Forester at your service.” He bowed at the waist to her. He never went by his title in Scotland, and he’d already decided he wasn’t going to inform this chit that he was a viscount. She’d made it clear how impressed she was by such things, going on as she had about her own title. He didn’t want to impress her.

  “Mr. Fergus wasn’t entirely certain when you’d be arriving,” she continued.

  “You weren’t expecting me?” he drawled.

  “No.” She shook her head this time. “I’m sorry about the sword.” She looked so contrite and innocent that Christian chuckled.

  He didn’t, however, know what sort of trouble she was in, and given that she was a young lady who’d obviously recently made her debut, he could only guess that the trouble involved a man. Lady Sarah here just might be carrying some London blue blood’s by-blow. He eyed her up and down again. He certainly couldn’t fault the chap for not wanting to wait till the wedding night. The woman would tempt a saint, and Christian should know. He was practically a saint given the state of his own years-long self-induced celibacy. But there would be time to talk about her circumstances later. She was obviously frightened, and given her confession, she might well be in the family way. He felt a bit sorry for her, really. He might be tired and hungry and put out, but he hadn’t been raised to be churlish or unkind.

  He took a deep breath. “What say we start again? Good evening, I’m Christian Forester. Welcome to my home.” He pushed himself off the door and bowed.

  When she smiled, relief made her crystalline eyes sparkle. “Thank you, Mr. Forester. I’m Lady Sarah Highgate.” She lifted her drab skirts and executed a perfect courtroom curtsy.

  “I take it you are responsible for the stew pot on the stove?” he asked.

  She nodded hesitantly. “Yes.”

  He quirked his lips again at that. “Does it taste any good? I am famished.”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted with a grin that Christian could only categorize as sheepish.

  “Do you care to find out?” he asked. “At the moment I’d be willing to eat my own glove if it were properly seasoned.”

  “I’m game if you are.” She smiled at him sweetly.

  “Good.” He stepped forward and offered her his arm. She threaded her arm through his and they turned and made their way into the corridor.

  Christian kept his eyes trained ahead, but if she’d bothered to glance up, she would have seen the half smile still planted firmly on his lips. “While we eat, Lady Sarah, you can tell me all about why you ran away.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Once they made it to the kitchen, Sarah hurried over to the cabinets and pulled out two bowls and two spoons. Christian raised his brows at the speed with which she went about busily preparing the meal. She’d obviously made herself right at home. She seemed to know where everything was, including the peppercorn, which she shook from a small glass bottle that she produced from the back of a cabinet.

  “I didn’t even realize I owned peppercorn,” he announced with a friendly smile.

  “Apparently you do. Peppercorn and salt and sage, too. Mrs. Goatsocks refused to leave with Mr. Fergus until she’d inspected the cupboards and ensured I wouldn’t starve while she was gone.”

  “And how does the daughter of an earl know how to cook?”

  “Oh, uh, er, Mrs. Goatsocks … left me instructions.”

  He eyed her carefully, wondering at her hesitation. “Well, if the smell is anything to go by, her instructions must have been perfect and your execution flawless.”

  “Wait until you try it,” she said. “But I must make the biscuits before we eat.”

  There was indeed a roll of dough lying on the counter. Christian hadn’t noticed it when he’d first walked in.

  Lady Sarah knew how to make biscuits, too? How interesting.

  “I left them to rise while I was napping,” Sarah admitted with another sheepish smile. She went about flipping the dough in the flour and slapping it on the countertop before using a round cup to produce biscuit-sized amounts of the stuff. Christian watched her in fascination. Surprising that a London blue blood would know how to cook and appear so natural doing it. It seemed strangely homey to him. His chest felt tight. All he’d ever wanted was a wife, a home, a simple life. He’d spent the last several Seasons in London looking for a wife. With no success. Seeing a woman in the kitchen of his lodge, making biscuits, suddenly felt very intimate.

  “You do that as if you’ve done it before,” he murmured, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “The truth is I have.” Her cheeks
reddened. “I used to sneak down to the kitchens at our country house and watch the cook. She let me help her after I begged. I know how to cook lots of things, actually.”

  “You wanted to help cook? Why?” Christian couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice.

  Sarah gingerly placed the biscuits in a pan that she was preparing for the hearth. “It always seemed like a more useful thing to do than sit around in pretty gowns and not get mussed all day.”

  Christian shook his head. His arms dropped to his side. An earl’s daughter dressed like a maid and preferring kneading dough to buying fripperies? What a singularly odd combination. But then again, he reminded himself, she wasn’t the typical earl’s daughter or she wouldn’t have taken off to Scotland dressed as a maid, would she have?

  Christian filled Fergus’s water bowl from a pitcher sitting on the table. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he announced.

  “Take your time,” Sarah replied in a singsong voice.

  Shaking his head, Christian strode back to the guest bedchamber. He changed into a clean shirt and washed up as best he could using the bowl and basin on a wooden stand in the corner of the room. The water was nearly freezing. In London, his valet would have had a fresh set of clothing waiting and a hot bath. But Scotland was a different matter altogether, and his valet was at his country estate in Northumbria. Before he left the room, Christian glanced at his reflection in the looking glass above the washbowl. He hadn’t shaved in many days. He looked a fright. It was a wonder Lady Sarah hadn’t shrieked at the sight of him. He wouldn’t have blamed the poor girl.

  When he returned to the great room, Lady Sarah had ladled out a large bowl of stew for him and another for herself. She’d poured two glasses of red wine from one of the bottles that he’d had stored in the pantry. The biscuits were hot and fresh from the pan on the hearth, and Sarah had placed two on a small plate near his bowl of stew on the table.

  Sarah sat at the small wooden table, quietly waiting for him. From his place a few paces away, Fergus II sat up straight and licked his chops, staring at them both expectantly. Sarah tossed the dog a bit of crust from one of her biscuits.