Page 22 of The Texan Duke
“I can tell you’ve never been to Texas,” he said. “A man’s saddle is one of his most important possessions.”
“We have saddles here at Bealadair. Did you think we wouldn’t?”
“I don’t care if you have saddles here or not,” he said. “I prefer my own.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t bring your own horse.”
He grinned at that, amused by the look in her eyes—a combination of surprise and annoyance. She was very protective of Bealadair.
“I wanted to,” he confessed. “Glassey assured me that I would have some suitable mounts here. Plus, I didn’t think it would be fair to subject my horse to an ocean voyage. He’s used to riding among Longhorns, not waves.”
She looked away at that, concentrating on the scone on the plate before her. She didn’t seem to be hungry, but he polished off the other two scones he’d been given.
As long as it wasn’t oatmeal, he was fine. Oatmeal harkened him back to the days of his childhood sitting around the family table being bedeviled by his older sisters. He could never put enough cream or enough sugar in it to make it palatable. It still tasted like paste to him.
Elsbeth wasn’t talkative, a difference from most women he knew. Yet while he found it restful, he also discovered that the silence was niggling at him. He had a great many questions about her, but other than asking about his wife and his saddle she didn’t seem to want to know any more about him.
The lack of anyone’s curiosity about Texas or America—or even how he felt about becoming the 14th Duke of Lothian—was irritating. It was as though no one thought he had a life before coming to Scotland. Or maybe they thought that everything that had transpired until the moment he became duke was inconsequential.
Neither his aunt nor his cousins had asked about his family, the XIV Ranch, his past, or his hopes for the future. What would they think if he told them that a title didn’t mean anything to him? It was like the chilled air that had nearly frozen his face this morning. Something he noted, but that was gone the moment he came inside.
She took a sip of her tea, set the cup back in the saucer, and regarded him for a moment.
“What’s a Longhorn?” she asked.
Finally, another question.
“The type of cattle we raise on the XIV Ranch. They’re big and they’ve got horns that can easily stretch six feet or more.”
He pulled out his notebook, turned to a clean page, and sketched a picture of one for her.
She glanced at the notebook, then up at him before returning to the sketch again.
“You’re very talented,” she said.
He shook his head. “No. My mother’s the one with the real talent. I just amuse myself with it.”
She shook her head. “I would disagree,” she said, her finger reaching out to trace the horns he’d drawn. “Are you certain you haven’t exaggerated?”
He smiled. “I’m certain.” He glanced down at the sketch. “They’re not all that fearsome up close. Most of them aren’t. Those that have been around cowboys are pretty easily handled. The others? It takes a while.”
“We raise Highland cattle,” she said. “Have you ever seen one?”
He shook his head. “I’ve never even heard of one.”
“I’ll have to show you one of our herds. They winter outdoors. They’re very hardy that way.”
He never once considered sitting with a beautiful woman and talking cattle. Perhaps that was his fault. He didn’t often go into Austin, and when he did it was mainly because of his sisters, not any personal inclination.
A man had needs, of course, but he found if he kept himself busy—and that hadn’t been difficult in the past two years—he was often too tired to worry about any libidinous desires.
Until now, that is. The room was quiet. In the distance he could hear the sound of voices and occasionally laughter. He thought he could also pick up the sound of the winter wind soughing against the stone of Bealadair.
“You weren’t wearing any plaid last night.”
“Plaid?”
“On your dress.”
