Johanna Lindsay - The Heir

He nodded, and not to be rude, even left the door open as he disappeared into the house. Sabrina, afraid someone might notice her in passing, stepped well away from the door. She was hoping that Duncan would be busy; then again, she was hoping to get this over with. Contradictions in feelings really did not sit well on the stomach, and hers was protesting most vehemently with a queasiness that wouldn't go away.

Five minutes passed, then another five. She was just about positive that she would be vomiting in the bushes if she had to endure this embarrassment even one more minute, and decided it would be better for her stomach, at least, to just leave. Then she heard the footsteps behind her.

She swung about just as Duncan began to say, "The butler said you—" He stopped, surprise lighting up his features as he recognized her, then added, "You! So you do live around here, aye?"

"Well, yes, our cottage is just off the road on the way to Oxbow, about a twenty-minute walk from here."

" 'Our'? You're no' married, are you?"

She blinked, then grinned. "Not that I've noticed lately. I live with my two maiden aunts."

He frowned. "Are you new tae the neighborhood then, that m'grandfather wouldna know you tae invite you tae this party o' his?"

This was approaching what could be called a sticky subject, and she'd just as well not go into the details of exactly why Lord Neville wouldn't send her any invites. Duncan was proving much too inquisitive—about her—when he should be asking about her message.

So she said merely, "I've never met Lord Neville, so no, he doesn't know me."

"Well, then." He smiled at her. "Since I know you, let me extend a belated invitation—"

She held up a hand to stop him. Had she really thought she could avoid the subject?

"I fear I may have misled you. Your grandfather has never met me, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know of me, and I think I can safely say he wouldn't consider me an appropriate guest for the purpose of his party."

Bright red, her cheeks were, by the time she got all that out. But he nodded in understanding, then surprised her by saying, "So you'll come anyway, at my request, and bedamned what the auld mon has tae say aboot it."

"No, really, I couldn't. Now, you really must let me deliver my message and be on my way."

He twisted his lips a bit, as if he might argue, but then he sighed. "Verra well, what message is that?"

Now that she had to say it, the words just wouldn't come out. Her cheeks, with barely a chance to cool off, were surely scarlet now. She glanced away from him, getting desperate, aware that he was waiting ..

Spotting the edge of the stable off to the side of the house, she procrastinated after all. "It was very strange, seeing coaches milling about a stable yard, rather than horses, but still not as many as one would expect to see from a gathering this large. Have some been put out to pasture then?"

"Put out—?" he began, but the image her words produced, of fifty or so coaches grazing in a pasture, had him laughing before he finished.

Sabrina couldn't find anything amusing about what she'd said just then and took advantage of his distraction to blurt out, "Lady Ophelia would like an opportunity to speak to you in private. She suggested a meeting in the common room at the inn in Oxbow so that she might apologize to you."

She had managed to catch him completely unawares. In fact, he was looking at her now as if she were daft. But as quickly a scowl came and he bit out, "More like insult me again."

"No, really, she has assured me she regrets whatever it was she said to you before. Will you meet her?" "Nae."

Oddly, Sabrina felt her embarrassment subside, hearing that emphatic answer. But she wouldn't be honestly discharging her duty if she didn't at least make another effort or two on Ophelia's behalf.

So she said, "Is that an 'I'll think about it' nay or an 'I'll need more convincing' nay?"

" 'Twas a flat-oout 'ne'er tae be considered' nay."

"Oh, dear, and I'd thought that type was obsolete."

"What type?" he said in a tone beginning to sound like exasperation. "What are you blathering aboot

now?"

"Your 'never to be considered' no. I thought everyone left a little room for changing their minds these days. Saves embarrassment, you know, if you try evasiveness instead—just in case you do want to change your mind later."

"Aye, but e'en more time is saved if you know your own mind and say so." She gave up on that tack, asked instead, "Would it really be so hard on you to hear what she has to say?" "Hard, nay. A waste o' m'time, aye."

She was blushing again, profusely, aware that she was wasting his time as well. "I'm sorry. I should have realized, with you needing to be in constant attendance here just now, that this wouldn't be a good time to bother you about this. I'll be going. G'day, Duncan MacTavish. It really was nice, seeing you again."

"Wait."

She had taken a good fifteen brisk steps, trying to escape her own embarrassment, which put her almost beyond shouting distance. She turned, not even positive that it wasn't just her hopeful imagination that had him calling her back. But indeed, he was walking toward her, and reaching her, he looked like a man about to eat sour grapes.

"I'll meet her on one condition," he said.

She was surprised enough to say, "Certainly. What condition would that be?" "That you pack your bags and get back here afore dinner is served t'night" Her eyes widened. "You're inviting me to dinner?"

"I'm inviting you tae the blasted party, for the duration, however bluidy long that is."

She smiled then. She couldn't help it, he sounded so aggrieved that he was compromising just to get his way.

"I, ah, don't need to pack any bags. I do live just down the road."

"You'll come then?"

"My aunts would have to come with me. I can't go to affairs like this without their chaperonage" "Bring whomever you like—except her "

She nodded. "But you will meet her?" At his own curt nod, she added, "When?"

"In one hour. But if she's no' there on time, I'm no' waiting on her. And you'll be telling me later why you were bringing me this request o' hers."

He turned abruptly and went back into the house. Sabrina, utterly amazed at the outcome of her visit, turned to hurry home to give Ophelia the good news. Her debt was paid. She felt such relief that it was over, that she wouldn't feel obliged to do again something she'd found so abhorrent.

She was nearly halfway to the hill where she'd met Duncan when Lord Neville's butler, running after her, was finally within distance for her to hear him.

Out of breath, he more or less panted what he had to say when he reached her. "Lord Neville's coach will pick you up this evening."

"That isn't necessary," she told him. "You know we have our own coach." "Yes, miss, but I believe the young lord wants to make sure you come." She blushed. Jacobs's assumption, surely, but it still sounded rather nice.

Duncan couldn't believe he hadn't asked the lass for her name yet again, nor did he even realize that he hadn't until Neville asked him who she was. He was rather embarrassed at that point. He'd sought out Neville this third time, fully expecting to have an argument when he told the old man he'd invited someone to Summers Glade who wasn't gentry. But that was the conclusion he'd come to when the lass had given her reasons for why Neville wouldn't consider her for his guest list, that and that she and her aunts lived in a cottage.

It made no difference to him, her social status. He still liked her, and especially her knack for the absurd, which could so easily disperse any anger he was fretting with. And it wasn't as if he were looking to marry her, so what, really, could Neville object to? But he was deceiving himself.

He knew very well that the class of people who had been invited by Neville, lords and ladies all, might be offended by someone not of their own class being at the same gathering as they were, not in a serving capacity, but as another guest. He knew also that that would be Neville's objection, which was why he'd come expecting an argument.

But he wasn't going to get the argument he'd come for, when he couldn't even tell Neville who the lass was. He supposed he could have mentioned that she wasn't gentry, but decided to wait and let Neville

discover that on his own. It was an excellent opportunity, after all, to see just how the old Englishman would react in such a situation. Duncan would find out whether he was an aristocrat of the old school who were mostly snobbish beyond belief, or if he was of the more enlightened school and realized that a title did not represent a man's worth.

But he probably should have opted for the argument, which he had hoped might relieve some of the tension he was feeling. That tension just got worse as he approached the inn in Oxbow. He'd been distracted from it only briefly, when he'd tried to figure out just where the lass's "cottage off the road" might be, when he hadn't seen a single small dwelling, only one manor house and a few farms, on his ride there.

Perhaps she'd meant on the way to Oxbow coming from the other direction, or right on the edge of the small town—there were plenty of cottages along the narrow lanes off the main street, after all. But as a distraction, it didn't last long, not when it didn't take all that long to ride to town.

He still couldn't believe he'd agreed to speak with Ophelia Reid, when he had hoped to never lay eyes on her again. What purpose would it serve, other than to relieve the guilty conscience that she might be having? Any apologies from her would have little meaning to him. She had shown her true colors. There was nothing she could say to excuse the extent of her insults to him. And now he even knew, if he could believe that Rafe fellow, that she had herself started the ridiculous "barbarian" rumors about him.

She wasn't there yet. He allowed he was five minutes early himself, but for someone eager to make amends, he had expected her to be there early, to make sure she didn't miss him. Now he had to wait, and even five minutes was too long to give her, in his opinion.

He waved the innkeeper away, and waited before the large fireplace in the common room. He would have preferred a shot of whisky, but wanted to be absolutely clearheaded when dealing with this particular lass.

She entered from the back. So she had been there early, after all, and just wanted to make an "appearance"? It was quite an appearance. With a white fur cap about her blond head, and a powder-blue long coat of velvet, topped by a short cape trimmed in the same white fur, she cut a 'dazzling figure,' actually, near blinding when she spotted him and cast a smile his way before walking toward him. She did that slowly, giving him ample opportunity to be mesmerized by her beauty. The white fur and the lighting combined seemed to make her glow with an ethereal beauty.

He wasn't the only one in the room who couldn't take his eyes from her. The few patrons who were there were staring at Ophelia with their mouths dropped open. Duncan wasn't quite that bedazzled, though he did have a hard time for a moment keeping in mind that for all her beauty, this lass had a vicious streak. Impossible to tell, looking at her, but hard to miss once she opened her mouth.

She was still wearing the smile when she reached him. There had been the briefest moment when it altered and went a little stiff as she noticed his kilt. He'd worn it deliberately. If she had any sense at all, she'd realize that the kilt was his way of telling her, without words, that this meeting was pointless.

"I see you got my message," she said.

"Aye, and why was the lass the one tae deliver it?" he replied.

He hadn't meant to ask her that, had meant to bring it up later with the violet-eyed lass, so he was actually relieved that he didn't really get an answer. Don't distract her. Let her have her say and he could

be gone the sooner. He needed to keep that in mind. She shrugged. "Why not? Most people feel privileged to assist me."

He said nothing to that, but then it was hard to think of a reply when he was concentrating on not laughing. That single statement of hers said so much about her, and the irony was, she didn't even realize the impression it gave. Beyond mere condescension, beyond self-pride, it was so far into the upper reaches of vain conceit that Duncan couldn't think of an exact word to describe it, if there even was one.