Page 12 of Highland Renegade
Her sisters often lacked patience. “First, I want to tour the property and ask questions of the crofters and merchants. It will be easier if they do not know I am the new owner. Second, there is a distillery on this estate that makes excellent whisky. The kind that White’s, as well as some of the other gentlemen’s clubs, would love to stock. I gather that two uncles run it. I would like to meet them before I disclose who I am or my plans.”
“And when is all of this going to happen?” Juliana asked.
“Mr. MacGregor is going to arrange a tour tomorrow or the next day,” Emily replied, “and I will ask about the uncles.”
“We do not have to go on the tour, do we?” Lorelei asked. “The weather is cold up here, even if it is summer.”
“Neither of you has to go. In fact, it will be easier for me to get the locals to talk if they are not bombarded with all three of us.”
“I am not sure it is smart to ride out without at least one of us,” Juliana said. “What if the man—or his brothers—decide to do you bodily harm? Maybe even kill you? It could look like an accident and no one would ask questions.”
“Why would anyone want to do such a thing? Especially if they do not know I have the deed?”
“Mr. MacGregor knows. So do his brothers.” Juliana grimaced. “And that Rory… Well, I would not put anything past him.”
“Just because the two of you struck it off on the wrong foot, does not mean he is malicious,” Emily replied. “I will be fine, even if he does ride along.”
But for some odd reason, she hoped he wouldn’t.
…
Ian made himself scarce the next morning. As he rode out shortly after sunrise, letting Paden, his big stallion, have his head and enjoy a full-out gallop, he told himself he wasn’t running away. He wasn’t even avoiding the prospect of taking his Sassenachguestaround MacGregor lands. He wasn’t doing either of those two things. He truly wasn’t. He simply needed time to think. And strategize.
His instincts told him that the dowager Countess of Woodhaven—theyoung dowagerCountess of Woodhaven—hadn’t deferred to his request because he was laird, at least to his clan. Nor did he think she’d acquiesced because she thought him wise. He suspected she was formulating some plan that would benefit her. She was a wily one, acting every inch the proper English lady and then downing a full dram of whisky without so much as a sputter. She bore watching.
The problem was, watching her made his male libido spring to life, much as he tried to ignore the fact. He couldn’t help being aware of her alluring feminine curves—breasts that would fit nicely into his palms, a small waist his hands could encircle, a plump bottom that he could cradle against him—to say nothing of the golden halo of hair that suited her angelic-looking face. Angelic? Ian snorted in derision. Angels didn’t drink whisky like she had. If he were a superstitious sort, he’d think the fae had a hand in sending her to Strae Castle.
He reined in the stallion once they were well out of sight from anyone on the battlements—just in case hisguesthad a notion to climb up on them. He had a more immediate problem to solve, one in which he’d have to reconcile the low profit margins of his reports with the robust crops that promised a good harvest, as well as the obvious abundance of sheep grazing everywhere that wasn’t planted. If only the countess had waited to come north for a couple of months, the fields would be tilled and the animals sheltered in pens for the winter. But then, anyone with a few ounces of common sense would travel north while the weather was good, and Emily Woodhaven had already proven that she didn’t lack intelligence.
Of course, there was the off chance that she had not seen or read any of his reports. They’d been sent to the earl’s man of business. Even as the thought entered his head, he tossed it aside. She wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t been aware of the reports. His only hope was that he could convince her that several years of too much rain had drowned out crops, but this was a bumper year. And that he was perfectly capable of being the steward for these lands. Then he would pray for an early, harsh winter to set in that would send her and her sisters fleeing to the relative comfort of London.
Ian spent the rest of the morning stopping at different crofters, explaining the earl’s widow wasvisitingand, when he brought her around, to do their best in rejoicing over the blessing of crops this year. And, since most of his clansmen had taken surnames of Murray or Grant, they could also bear witness to how well he managed the holdings, even when times had been hard. He didn’t have to spell it out for any of them, since once the Sassenach was back on her side of the border, they could resume acting like MacGregors.
By the time Ian returned to the castle he was feeling quite satisfied with himself. The countess would get glowing reports of everything going well and have no need to oversee anything herself long-term. If he were lucky—and persuasive—she might never tell anyone about the deed. And, if his luck held, Lord Mount Stuart and his father, the Earl of Bute, would be successful in returning the MacGregor name and rights to their lands this year. All would be well then.
He felt much more hopeful as he rode through the raised portcullis. The bailey was full of clansmen—also Murrays and Grants—who were headed for the Great Hall for the noonday meal. As he turned his horse toward the stable, an angry shout came from the open front doors as a young man bolted down the steps toward him.
“Tell me ’tis nae true that the damn English king has given away the deed to our castle!”
Ian’s hopes were dashed like a skiff on hard rocks blown by a harsh wind. Dozens of his clansmen had just heard what he wanted to keep secret. He glowered at the man whose eyes glittered back at him, black as coal.
Devon had returned home.
Chapter Five
Ian glared at each of his brothers, all of whom had sat as far away from his desk as possible with the exception of Devon, who stood directly in front of it, arms folded across his chest, legs splayed.
“I am still waitin’ on an explanation,” he said.
Ian gestured toward the others. “Which of these eejits told ye?”
“I was the one who explained the situation,” Carr said.
Carr was by far the most diplomatic of all of them. If anyone could haveexplainedthe situation tactfully, or at least created a buffer from the harsh truth, it would have been Carr. That Devon was livid meant he’d failed.
“And did ye two”—Ian looked at Rory and Alasdair—“offer your opinions as well?”
Both of them shrugged a little too nonchalantly.
