Page 12 of The Texan Duke
“I don’t think it’s entirely safe for you to be standing there if that’s the case,” he said.
He glanced up but couldn’t see the roof for the snow.
“You’re probably right,” she said, grabbing the statue by the arm and pulling it free.
The stone soldier was attired in a kilt with a length of tartan across his bare shoulders. He clutched a dirk in one hand and a small shield in the other. To his surprise, the statue hadn’t shattered into pieces, only cracked across the middle.
She looked up at him and smiled, the first true smile he’d received since arriving at Bealadair. He wanted to thank her for that.
“Elsbeth! Your Grace!”
They both turned to see the duchess peering out the front door.
“Please, come inside this instant!”
Elsbeth turned to the footman. “Jim, if you’ll take the statue inside, we’ll see if we can repair the damage tomorrow.”
Without another word, she brushed past Connor and headed toward the front door, leaving him to follow.
Evidently, one obeyed the duchess. Or at least Elsbeth did.
Instead of returning to the Laird’s Hall, Elsbeth headed for the kitchen.
She’d forgotten to ask the duke about his saddle. A saddle, of all things. She wanted to know why he’d transported a saddle all the way to Scotland. Did he think they didn’t ride in Scotland? Or that they rode bareback?
There was also the matter of what he wanted to eat. Despite going to a few people in the village, she was still ignorant about what Americans liked.
“I’ve heard that they don’t like blood sausage at all,” Mrs. Condrey had offered. “Or puddings.”
“I think they like fried eggs,” Mrs. McGuffin said. “And rashers.”
She really should have asked him what he wanted for breakfast. But she’d taken one look at him and every cogent thought had flown from her mind.
She would check in with the staff and see if they needed anything, give orders about the statue, and then wait in the kitchen until the duke retired in case he needed anything.
In the morning, she’d ensure he was served a good Scottish breakfast. Perhaps they would have an opportunity to speak.
There was absolutely no reason to feel warm at the possibility of having a conversation with a man she didn’t know. None whatsoever.
Chapter 5
Connor hadn’t slept well, waking in the suite that had housed several generations of McCraights and feeling uncomfortable and out of place.
In the war he’d learned to sleep anywhere. More than once he’d simply leaned against a wall or a tree and dozed sitting up. But in the luxurious set of rooms with its velvet-and-gilt-covered furniture, he found himself waking every hour.
At dawn, he dressed and made his way down the stairs, declining the assistance of a sleepy-eyed footman who was stationed outside the double doors of his suite.
Finding his coat this time required the assistance of two footmen, one of whom finally returned to the base of the stairs holding the garment. Connor thanked the man, which evidently surprised him if the wide-eyed look was any indication, and made his way to the front door.
“It looks to be a good morning, Your Grace,” the footman said as he opened the door.
Connor peered outside at the mounds of snow. “Does it always snow so much here?”
“No, Your Grace. It’s been a difficult winter.”
Glassey could have told him that, too, along with information about Bealadair. Details he’d never divulged, like how damn big the house was.
Connor nodded, put his hat on, and walked outside.
