Page 43 of Never Kiss a Scot
“Brock?” she whispered.
“Hmm?” His reply felt intimate in a way that made her blush.
“I love when you sing to me.”
His arms tightened around her body as he pulled her closer.
“Then I shall sing often,” he promised.
They passed the remaining evening and the following day inside the coach. They paused for breaks to rest the horses, to see to their needs and to take quick meals. When the coach stopped for a final time Joanna awoke from a light sleep that she hadn’t even been aware she’d drifted into. Brock opened the coach door and offered her his hands, helping her down. She looked up, gaping at the stone edifice towering above her. It was breathtaking. The fierce gray stones in the jagged edges of the parapets along the roof were like a wolf baring its teeth. Yet there was a softness to it, the way the stones were smoothed from years of rain rather than pitted and craggy. Whoever had built this castle had built it with love and thought, not in haste to defend against enemies.
“What do you think?” Brock asked, shifting on his feet.
“It is wonderful,” she exclaimed, her gaze sweeping over her new home.
This is my world now. The sweeping clouds and the still waters of the lake beyond the solitary castle, standing like an ancient ring of stones amidst the distant hills.
“Come, let me show you inside.” Brock offered her his arm, and she lifted her skirts as they crossed the gravel carved road and reached the tall semicircular arched doorway.
The sturdy oak was intricately carved and weathered by centuries of harsh Scottish winters. Brock pushed on the rusted latch, and the heavy door swung open on its ancient hinges. She stepped into the dim interior with Brock, feeling like a woman being taken into a dark fairy realm. She caught sight of curving stairs, tapestries hanging against the stones while shafts of light pierced the darkness from tall windows. The dusty, old feel of the castle would have scared away any number of new English brides, but not her. Joanna was instantly bewitched with the cobwebs clinging to the chandeliers that glinted like gossamer in the sunlight. It was rather how she’d envisioned the castles in her Gothic novels, but at least here there would be no lurking ghouls or terrifying specters to send her fleeing onto the moors at midnight.
Brock smiled nervously as he waved a hand about the entryway. “Welcome to Castle Kincade. Such as it is.”
“Oh, Brock,” she said with a sigh and ran to him, hugging him. “It’s magnificent.”
“You mean that?” He tilted her chin up, studying her closely, as if trying to find some sign of deception. But he wouldn’t find any. This was a place of magic, a place she felt drawn to, connected to in a way that defied any explanation she could give.
“You truly like it?” Brock asked.
“I do. Now, show meeverything.”
Brock led her through a corridor that contained a dozen or more bedrooms, then the courtyard, which held a small herb garden and a rose garden. He took her to the windows of the tower, where he pointed to the outside gardens. They reminded her a little of Vauxhall in London, but he was right, they would require a lot of attention. Then he took her down to the large kitchens. They were dark, only firelit. A squat, red-faced woman sat by the fire, roasting a pot of potatoes over the flames.
The woman leapt to her feet when she saw Brock. “My lord!”
“Mrs. Tate, this is my wife, Joanna, the new mistress of Castle Kincade.”
Mrs. Tate’s eyes widened as she took in Joanna and dipped into a hasty curtsy.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Tate.” Joanna smiled at the woman, but she saw a flash of dislike in the woman’s eyes when she heard Joanna’s English accent, before the dark look was buried beneath a polite mask.
“Congratulations on your nuptials, my lord,” the cook said. “I hope you will be as happy as the great master was with your mother.”
Brock tensed at the mention of his parents, and Joanna squeezed his arm gently in silent support.
“Thank you,” Brock murmured. “I’m sure you and Lady Kincade will have much to discuss regarding the running of the kitchens, the menus for dinner, as well as the other household accounts. Joanna, her brother has seen to much of the work as well while I’ve been focused on the tenant farms and animal husbandry. I’m sure he’ll be glad to divide the work between you and himself. It’s time we changed from how my father ran things. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Tate?”
“I thought the great master ran things just fine,” she muttered, arching a brow in skeptical challenge. Joanna swallowed back a bitter taste. This was not going to be easy; she would have to convince the cook to trust her.
“Mrs. Tate, have you seen Mr. Tate? He did not greet us when we arrived,” Brock asked in a low voice.
“Oh! Mr. Tate was seeing to the books in your study, my lord.”
“Ach, good.” Brock escorted Joanna from the kitchens. As they left, she glanced over her shoulder one more time and saw Mrs. Tate still frowning.
Oh dear.She wasn’t looking forward to dealing with Mrs. Tate, but she suspected it was due to the fact that she was English. The Battle of Culloden was still fresh in the minds of many, especially the Scots.
She and Brock returned to the main hall, and he took her down a narrow corridor.
