Page 86 of The Texan Duke
At the front door, the footman offered Connor his hat and coat. Someone had evidently repaired his coat and it was a credible effort. The hole in the shoulder had been mended with an almost-invisible stitch, but it was still obvious that something had penetrated the soft leather. The bloodstains, however, had been mostly eradicated.
Elsbeth grabbed her cloak, annoyed and irritated because she couldn’t figure out exactly why she was annoyed and irritated. Was it because she didn’t know who’d gone to the effort of mending Connor’s coat? Or was it because, until this moment, she’d not considered it? Or because Connor and Mrs. Ferguson had formed a friendship and she hadn’t known about it? She’d done everything in her power to avoid Connor in the past week, and now she was out of sorts because he’d evidently not missed her.
She was behaving childishly, an awareness that didn’t make her feel more adult.
She followed the two of them to the east lawn. It looked as if most of the staff was present, an observation Elsbeth made with some chagrin. Not one person had come to her and asked for permission to be here. Of course, she wasn’t actually the housekeeper at Bealadair. It was just a role she played. She wouldn’t have refused anyone, but perhaps it wasn’t her decision to make. Connor may have gone around and told everyone about the match and invited them to attend. Who was she to counter the word of the Duke of Lothian?
None of the family members were in the crowd. It was entirely possible that they were viewing the match from one of the upstairs parlors. They would be warm and comfortable and spared having to mingle with the servants. She was not going to turn and look at the windows to verify her guess.
She hadn’t considered that Connor would make friends so easily, and that was her foolishness. As he passed in front of the staff, quite a few of them waved to him and smiled. He waved back and nodded. Gavin had known everyone who worked at Bealadair, and it seemed as if Connor did, too.
What a surprising man he was. He wasn’t like anyone she knew. She couldn’t put him in a proper category. Was there a box labeled Independent Texan? Or Stubborn American?
What would she call it other than obstinacy that would make him, a week from being shot, engage in a match of skill? Anyone else would’ve begged off, would’ve offered his injury up as an excuse. Not Connor McCraight.
She had the odd thought that Connor was probably like his ancestors, a Highlander of old, the kind of man who had become the first Duke of Lothian: fiercely himself, dedicated to his own purpose, intensely focused.
This was the man Rhona wanted her to seduce? The idea was laughable. He would feel nothing more than pity for her, she was sure. No doubt he would try to spare her feelings as he bit back his laughter.
She wasn’t unduly surprised to find that he had arranged a chair for Mrs. Ferguson along the periphery of onlookers.
Although the day was a normal cold winter day in the Highlands, there wasn’t any wind. The sky was blue and the sun had melted the snowdrifts on either side of the lawn. Spikes of deep green could be seen through the snow, a faint and false hint of spring.
Several yards ahead, two tables had been erected. Felix was at one of them, readying his guns. A footman stood behind each table, no doubt to be pressed into service in some way. On either side of the lawn was a station where a stableboy waited with a pile of glass orbs to be used as targets. Felix bought them from a company in Inverness by the crate.
Would he be able to pursue his hobby once they were forced from Bealadair? She doubted it, unless his new property had sufficient space for shooting and he had enough income to purchase ammunition and targets.
All of them were going to have to change in one way or another, and change was not something that came easily to the McCraights. No doubt it was because they lived in a home that was many centuries old and followed traditions that were equally as venerable. Change might not be anathema, but it was also not something they actively sought.
Had someone in the family shot him? It was not the first time in the past week she’d had that thought, but she always pushed away her suspicions because it was too difficult to consider. Today, looking at Felix, she couldn’t help but wonder if it had been him.
Was Connor thinking the same?
She watched as he walked to the table on the left side of the lawn. He removed his coat, laying it across the table, then put his hat atop it. One by one he picked up the three rifles arranged there. She didn’t know anything about guns, but it seemed to her that he examined them with some expertise, holding each one up to eye level and peering into various places, moving the lever that did something, and then placing each gun back on the table.
He nodded at Felix, who was hatless but still wore a coat, a long black garment that made him look like a starving crow. Connor picked up one of the guns and nodded again, which was evidently a signal to begin.
The stableboy to the left of Connor grabbed a target and threw it underhanded into the air between the two tables. Connor raised the rifle and shot it, shattering the glass ball into countless shards. It was only when he replaced the gun and picked up another that she realized he’d shot left-handed.
Felix had evidently made that discovery as well, because he was frowning at Connor.
She could hear murmuring behind her, equal parts amazement and admiration for their new duke.
When it was Felix’s time to shoot, he hit the target, too.
It looked to her, over the next several rounds, as if Felix had met his match. That is, if you discounted the fact that Connor had been wounded and was using his left arm.
He was obviously more skilled, a fact that had evidently occurred to Felix as well, because he gave the command that his targets were to come in bursts of two at a time.
Connor did the same, and when he missed one, an audible moan traveled through the crowd behind her.
Felix was not beloved among the staff. The comments she’d overheard—people normally didn’t speak freely around her—were that he considered himself better than those who served him. He looked down on Bealadair’s servants, while they knew he was nothing more than the purchased husband of one of the McCraight daughters.
The new duke, on the other hand, had endeavored to learn their names. He made his own coffee, insisted on breakfasting with Addy and Betty, and—knowledge she’d just acquired—had made Mrs. Ferguson some type of balm to use for her arthritis.
When Connor missed another shot, Felix’s smile grew broader.
There was no doubt of the disappointment in the crowd behind her. She was annoyed on Connor’s behalf. Didn’t they realize he was shooting with his left arm? He’d been wounded. When it was over and the tally taken, Felix was the winner.
