Page 11 of The Texan Duke
Elsbeth gave orders with the ease of someone long accustomed to doing so. When the shutters were closed and the curtains drawn against the night, she dismissed the footmen. Instead of leaving, she came and sat next to Muira, reaching for a cup and pouring herself some tea.
He hadn’t the slightest idea who she was. Not his cousin, evidently. Someone that felt at ease with the family, however, or she wouldn’t have come and sat among them. Or smiled at Glassey, who had taken one of the chairs close to the fire.
“Elsbeth?” Connor said. “An interesting name.”
“It means ‘God is my oath,’” she said. She didn’t smile, but there was a twinkle in her eyes as if she were teasing him.
“Muira means ‘from the moor,’” Muira said. “A great deal less profound, but I like that it’s poetic, in its way. Of course, Father picked it, so it would have been. I think he was mostly a poet. More than he ever wanted to be a laird. Was your father the same?”
“We have plenty of time to learn about your uncle,” the duchess said. “Don’t badger His Grace with questions, Muira.”
A sound reminding him of a cannon shot kept him from responding. The noise started at the top of the house and rumbled across the roof. They all looked upward, but only Elsbeth ran to the window, opened the curtains and the newly closed shutters to stare out at the snow.
“What is it?” he said, standing and moving to her side.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But I need to find out.”
She was gone again, leaving the Laird’s Hall without a word to anyone.
He turned and glanced at Sam. The other man knew him well enough to interpret the look.Make my excuses. Be polite for me. Offer an explanation, if you can.
How many occasions had he depended on Sam? Dozens, especially after his mother had gotten it into her head to begin introducing him to eligible women throughout Texas. Whenever he had to escort his mother somewhere, he found himself waylaid.
He had five older sisters and a mother determined to get him married off. Consequently, he’d spent the past two years feeling as if he was avoiding bear traps.
He left the Laird’s Hall, retraced his steps, and found himself in the foyer. A footman was stationed at the door.
“Have you seen Elsbeth?” he asked.
The footman nodded. “Miss Carew has gone outside, Your Grace.”
He pushed aside the irritation at being calledYour Gracefor another, more important point.
“Miss Carew? She isn’t a McCraight?”
The footman looked uncomfortable at being addressed. Nor had his aunt and cousins spoken directly to any of the maids. Was it a Scottish rule not to talk to the servants? They were just going to have to get used to him because he was damned if he was going to ignore people around him.
“No, Your Grace, she’s the ward of the 13th duke.”
Interesting. Then why hadn’t the duchess introduced her? He tucked that question away with the rest of them.
“Do you know where they put my coat and hat?”
The footman bowed slightly and said, “I do, Your Grace. Shall I fetch them for you?”
He nodded, determined to address theYour Gracematter in the morning. The footman reappeared a few moments later with his garments.
He put his hat on, then his coat, and would have opened one of the double doors if the footman hadn’t gotten there before him. He thanked the man, left the house, and was immediately nearly pushed off the steps by the force of the wind.
Since they’d arrived at Bealadair, the blizzard had gotten worse. They’d been lucky to get here before the roads were impassable.
Half of the torches had been blown out by the wind, but a few of them were still lit, giving him enough light to see his way. He grabbed the banister with one hand and his hat with the other, making his way down the slippery steps. He squinted into wind that had a razor’s edge. The air was thick with snow, making it difficult to breathe.
He’d faced a blizzard in the panhandle, but this one seemed like it had a personality. Perhaps it was a raw and angry Scot, enraged that a stranger had invaded its land.
To his relief, he saw Elsbeth right away. She was dressed in a dark red cloak, the hood covering her hair. She and a man dressed in a Bealadair uniform were bent over, digging in a snowdrift. As he approached, she glanced up.
“It’s a soldier,” she said, her words just this side of a shout. “One of the guardians on the roof. The snow must have built up and pushed him off.”
