Page 10 of To Bed the Bride
“Very well, you weren’t afraid.”
They looked at each other and it seemed like a hundred words or more passed between them, each one unspoken. A conversation of thoughts, perhaps, one filled with curiosity on his part and confusion on hers.
She would return home and banish any thought of the shepherd and this entire interlude. It would be like a dream, something she imagined. Or recalled later to wonder if it was real.
“Goodbye, Miss Eleanor Craig.”
Never had she met a more irritating person in her life or a more confounding one. A shepherd who didn’t speak as one. A man who complimented her too fulsomely and looked at her with admiring eyes. He’d touched her intimately and didn’t look the least bit apologetic for doing so.
Instead of saying another word, she left him then, sending Maud galloping home, determined never to come this way again.
She was angry at him and he couldn’t blame her. Something in his nature had been awakened by the mysterious Miss Craig. He wanted to see what she was like beneath that facade of utter politeness. He’d never felt like goading a woman into rage before and the fact that he’d done so with her was a surprise.
He hadn’t lied. She was beautiful, but he’d never been attracted to women of her sort. First of all, she wasn’t a blonde and he was normally only attracted to blonde-haired women. Secondly, she’d evidently been reared with all those rules about decorum and civility. Granted, that had been his upbringing as well, but he’d found that it was sometimes better to roll in the mud than pretend the mud wasn’t there. He liked scrappy people who said what they meant and meant what they said, who weren’t afraid to let a few impolite words fly if it meant getting their point across. He liked sincerity and people who told the truth. Those like Miss Craig, however, hid behind all those rules and lessons.
She hadn’t liked him touching her. He hadn’t meant to, but her reaction—an instantaneous flare in her lovely blue eyes—had fascinated him. He’d rarely gotten that reaction in the past, but then, he wasn’t known for teasing women.
He remembered the Craigs of Hearthmere. Archie Craig had died some years earlier. He must have been Eleanor’s father. He’d heard something about the breeding farm, but he couldn’t remember what now.
Eleanor. The name suited her. She looked like an Eleanor with her patrician features. He’d been surprised that she was riding astride at first. However, the more he observed her the more he realized how skilled she was. Eleanor was at home in the saddle, a great deal more than he was.
When she was standing beside her horse, however, he was much taller. She was the perfect height for him to bend and kiss her.
That thought made him smile. He couldn’t help but wonder what the very proper Miss Eleanor Craig would have done if he’d swept her into his arms. No doubt she would have screamed or struck him. If nothing else, she would have probably lectured him about smelling of sheep.
Logan turned and made his way back up the hill, the dogs following. With a series of whistles, he gave them their commands.
She’d turned white at the idea of meeting Peter or Paul. The border collies were well trained and he hadn’t lied to her. As long as she wasn’t a threat to their sheep, they would welcome her as one of their friends.
In two days his secretary would come and he’d go back to London. He doubted that he’d see Miss Craig again. Strangely, that realization disappointed him. Yet he didn’t have time for a woman in his life right now. He didn’t even have time to speculate on a relationship.
A pity that. At another time, he might have pursued Miss Eleanor Craig, just to see those blue eyes snapping at him again.
Chapter Five
“Did you have an enjoyable morning, Miss Eleanor?”
Eleanor sighed, wishing she’d been able to slip up to her room before being seen by Mrs. Willett.
Clara Willett had been installed in her position as housekeeper by Eleanor’s aunt, having been recommended by two friends. The fact that the woman, English by birth and inclination, had remained in an isolated house in Scotland was due to two things: she was paid extraordinarily well and she was in love with Mr. Contino. Eleanor couldn’t help but know the first fact, since she oversaw the expenditures every quarter, but she wasn’t supposed to know about the love affair.
One of the maids had passed that information along to her last year, and ever since, she’d noticed telltale signs of their relationship. Sometimes you don’t see what’s right in front of you until it’s pointed out by someone else.
Mrs. Willett was one of those women whose age it would be difficult to pinpoint. Her hair was not quite blonde but was most definitely lighter than brown. Her face was full but not plump. Her eyes were her most commanding feature, being a pale blue. Her lips were almost always pursed just a little, as if afraid of giving the appearance of being accidentally pleased.
Her bosom was prominent and always covered in her dark blue housekeeper’s uniform. Eleanor wasn’t certain if it was something her aunt had started or a personal preference of Mrs. Willett, but the woman was never seen without her uniform with white cuffs and collar. Occasionally she wore a brooch and sometimes the collar was lace, but most of the time it was a serviceable cotton.
If the housekeeper and Mr. Contino were engaged in a torrid love affair—the nature of the relationship being shockingly passionate, according to the maid—it was done with the greatest discretion. The two didn’t chase each other through the corridors of Hearthmere at midnight. When Mrs. Willett referred to Mr. Contino, which wasn’t often, it was by his last name in the frostiest of tones. When he had occasion to comment on her, it was “the housekeeper.” Everything was quite proper and aboveboard.
As long as Hearthmere was running smoothly and her father’s horses were in excellent condition, Eleanor saw no reason to mention her knowledge to either of them.
“Yes, I did, thank you,” she said now, wishing she didn’t look so mussed. She’d curried Maud herself, half in apology for leading her through a sea of sheep. Her forbidden skirt had traces of dirt on its hem. She had the feeling, thus unproven, that Mrs. Willett sent her aunt letters during her month in Scotland, no doubt filled with information about what Eleanor had been doing and saying, changes she’d made, and clues she’d given about her future actions.
“Where does the Duke of Montrose’s land begin?” Eleanor asked.
Her knowledge of Hearthmere’s boundaries must be askew for her to have ventured onto the duke’s land. Perhaps the question should be better asked of her steward, but he didn’t live at Hearthmere, only came to the house once a month from Edinburgh.
“I’m not certain, Miss Eleanor. Is it important?”
