Page 31 of The Swordmaster's Daughter

Chapter eight

Too Many Scotsmen

Anambushcantake many forms. The most dangerous come disguised as a pleasantry.

Lord Cavendish turned up unannounced bringing his pet fencing master with him, though the man resembled a wild beast more than a pet. Ferguson was a good few inches over six feet, tall with pale blue eyes, the thickest thatch of fiery red hair that ever adorned a head and a luxuriant beard that was equally flaming.

“May we trouble you to fetch your father,” Cavendish said, his manner silky and courteous while his eyes brushed in calculating sweeps across the room. “I have brought Ferguson to inspect the premises and was hoping my nephew could join us in the tour?” The last time she had looked in on her father he was still snoring off the effects of last night, yet Lord Cavendish appeared remarkably frisky.

“My father is still indisposed, Mi-lord. I do not believe he was expecting you?”

“He was not, but I do not believe in wasting time. My nephew?”

“Has gone home only recently.”

“Pity,” Ferguson said. “I hoped to try out this piste he has been speaking of.” He started to prowl about, inspecting the floors, the pistes, the practice areas, the stacks of swords and shields laid out in preparation for the day’s training ahead. How forward the man was, acting as if he owned the place. A sneaking suspicion came over her. What if he did in fact own the place, or some of the place? So far, her father had not revealed the financial arrangements behind his agreement with Cavendish.

“I can show you around while we wait for my father. I grew up here and know this place as well as anyone.”

“What does a woman know about swords?”

“Quite a bit from what I hear,” Cavendish said, a comment that pulled her up with a jolt. There was only one place, or rather, one person he would have learned that from.

A certain treacherous Scot.

“I know which end to grasp and which to thrust!” she retorted, forgetting who she addressed. To her surprise Cavendish burst out laughing.

“Told you she was a firebrand,” he said to Ferguson who scrutinized her closely, a bemused smile playing at his lips.

“Oh lassie, I am sure you would be excellent at both grasping and thrusting,” Ferguson said.

Standing her ground, she boldly studied him back, determined not to be the first one to look away. He wore a checked shawl wrapped over his doublet which would have lent a feminine note to his appearance if not for the lethal looking miniature stiletto that pinned the shawl in place. He also carried a small dirk strapped to his side as well as a broadsword with a basket hilt similar to the sword of McCrae’s she had so admired. Ferguson was older than her father and wiry in build, but every inch of him was hardened muscle, and he moved with the grace of one who would be light on his feet. Finally he broke off their staring match with a wry twitch about his mouth, and she reverted to the path of conciliation.

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen. Please forgive me, I am forgetting my hostess duties. I have not had much sleep, what with tending injuries and cleaning up after your celebrations. I shall inform my father of your arrival. Perhaps some refreshments in the meantime? Something to break your fast? I believe my grandmother has been working to replenish our supplies.”

“We would not wish to further impose on your hospitality,” Cavendish said exhibiting the same smooth charm she had seen McCrae display.

“It is no imposition,” she said offering him her most dazzling smile and a small bobbing curtsy for good measure. Just then Grandma Jones came to the rescue, arriving with a platter of delicious smelling food.

“Good morning gentlemen,” she said. “The bread is not risen yet, so I hope you are partial to oatcakes.”

“Och, good mistress, oat cakes!” Ferguson positively swooned over the platter drawing in a deep appreciative sniff. “I am rendered defenseless. Clyde Ferguson at your service, the humble swordmaster hoping to join your good establishment.”

Then to Lucinda’s astonishment, he kissed her grandmother’s hand, and Grandma Jones fluttered her eyelashes back at him. “You’ll be wanting to kiss my feet when I tell you there is honey and cream to go with them.”

All the while Cavendish looked on in amusement as his tough-as-timber fencing master became dough in Grandma’s hands.

“This place exceeds all expectations. Tis even better than young McCrae said,” he declared while wolfing down an oatcake piled so high with honey and cream a large blob took up residence in his beard. While the men were thus distracted, Grandma Jones drew her aside.

“Do you think I should tell him about the…” Lucinda pointed at her chin.

“I think not. He may be saving it for afters.” It was hard to keep a straight face, but if Grandma could do it, so could she. “Take some to your father. If nothing else can rouse him, the smell of food will.”

“Did you know they were coming?”

“No. Though I expected they would. Cavendish is the type who likes to catch you by surprise. He might think he can out-maneuver your father, but I am not yesterday’s fool. A woman has ways and means to exert her own influence, and there is nothing like a full stomach to let a man think he has the upper hand.”

Just when she thought the day might be improving her father stumbled out of bed. Even fortified with Grandma’s oatcakes he still looked clearly the worse for wear. His eyes were blood-shot, his shirt smelled of stale ale and his hair stuck out at odd angles and would not be tamed. Something the cat dragged in backwards sprang to mind. He was convinced he could make a good impression on his guests despite the contradictory evidence and refused to consider that the throbbing headache he complained of might have something to do with the amount of strong ale he had consumed the previous night.

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