Chapter 2

Lochrose Castle, Strathspey, Scotland

October 1756

J essie Munroe reined in her exhausted horse, Blaeberry, on the crest of a brae overlooking what was to be her new place of residence—Lochrose Castle.

She hesitated to call it home yet; that would depend upon whether her father's new employer, the Earl of Strathburn made them feel welcome.

The loch before the castle reflected the last of the evening light, the silver-gray waters shimmering as a light breeze ruffled the surface. The shade reminded Jessie of the heraldic pewter targe that had once graced the Great Hall of Dunraven, their former home. It was but one of the many priceless family heirlooms of their clan, Munroe of Dunraven, which they'd been forced to hand over to the bank when it had reclaimed the Jacobean manor house, and indeed the entire estate of the profligate Laird of Dunraven, her uncle.

Jessie pushed a lock of her incessantly unruly red hair out of her eyes and glanced over to her father. Alasdair Munroe, younger brother of the ruined Laird of Dunraven, was now the new factor of the Strathburn estate. Her father's pride had suffered a mighty blow with this fall in their fortunes within the last year. It hurt her heart to see him brought so low, not just in spirit, but also physically. Not only did he stoop in his saddle as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders, but his face was now more deeply lined, his red hair turning gray. She silently prayed that this new situation would restore some of his old vitality and return the spark to his brown eyes.

As if sensing her gaze, her father turned and his mouth twitched with a ghost of a smile. "Weel, Jessie lass, what do ye think of Lochrose?"

Jessie cast her gaze back to the sprawling turreted castle of pale honey-hued stone. Its mullioned windows winked at her in the fading light as she considered his question. Lochrose was impressive, much grander than the somewhat ramshackle Dunraven. Without a doubt, it was a very large estate and her father would be busier than he'd ever been for her uncle.

Not for the first time, doubts about her own future prickled through her mind. What would she do with her days after she'd finished assisting her father with the ledgers? How would she be received by the earl and his family, not to mention the other staff at Lochrose? The long-held frustration that she'd always had, even at Dunraven—that she was an outsider caught on the shadowy landing between the lower gentry and the upper servants—flared inside her.

But she wouldn't burden her father with her own disquiet. Instead, Jessie summoned what she hoped was a bright smile and answered his seemingly simple question. "It's beautiful, Da. Verra grand."

"Aye, indeed it is, lassie. I just hope that this time, I dinna fail in my duties managin' such a large estate."

Jessie reached over and squeezed her father's gloved hand. "We'll be fine, Da. I know it. Just ye wait and see."

Alasdair nodded and sighed. "It'll be a different life, Jessie. No' the one I'd hoped for you." As he patted her hand in return, a wistful expression filled his eyes. "If only Duncan Ross had offered ye his hand in marriage. Ye would be happily handfasted with a braw future, full o' wee bairns ahead of you."

Perhaps. Jessie was not averse to marriage, one day, but it would be to someone who truly cared for her , not just the contents of her bridal tocher. That someone was evidently not Duncan Ross. As soon as the Munroe's fortunes had dried up—and her bridal portion with it—so had the young laird's attentions. Deep down, Duncan's rejection still smarted a little, but she certainly wasn't going to show it, even in front of her father.

Jessie tossed her wind-blown curls out of her eyes again. "That's bletherin' haver, Da. Ye know as well as I do, that Duncan Ross turned out to be—and ye must excuse my coarse expression—a horse's behind." Her father's bark of laughter was such a reward to her ears, Jessie couldn't help but grin back. "I'm only three-and-twenty, Da. Please dinna fret about whether or no' I'll make a good marriage. Let's do our best to make a good first impression with Lord and Lady Strathburn, and their son."

"The son, Simon Grant, the Master of Strathburn, isna in possession of a wife, ye ken," her father replied with a conspiratorial glint in his eye. "I checked."

Jessie rolled her eyes as she flicked Blaeberry's reins. "Well, let's just hope he isna a horse's arse as well."

Three weeks later, Jessie cursed inwardly on finding herself in an extremely vulnerable position, in more ways than one. Perched on a ladder, reaching for an ancient and dusty volume on the topmost shelf of one of the many bookcases in Lochrose Castle's library, she was far from impressed when the son of her father's employer, the Master of Strathburn—and resident horse's arse—slid his hand about her ankle.

"You're certain you can reach it, Miss Munroe?" Simon Grant's voice dripped with contrived concern as his hand continued its upward journey under her wren-brown wool skirt to her stocking-clad calf. "Here, let me steady you."

As Jessie grasped the unwieldy copy of Homer's Iliad , she was suddenly possessed by the overwhelming urge to "accidentally" drop the epic work onto the slimy toad's periwigged head—but considering Lord Strathburn himself had requested the volume, she refrained from giving into the impulse.

Besides, she was sure it would not go down well with the earl if she knocked his son unconscious. Or worse…

"I am verra steady, sir." Jessie forced the relatively polite reply through tightly clenched teeth. "But perhaps ye might take the book from me?"

She passed down the heavy tome so Simon was forced to grasp it with both hands. As swiftly as she could, she then descended the ladder and stepped away from the odious man. She wasn't daft; she would not give him the opportunity to trap her body up against the bookcase. Although she'd been living at Lochrose for less than a month, she was already wise to most of Simon's insidious methods of gaining close and unwelcome proximity to her.

"It's always a pleasure assisting you, Miss Munroe," Simon said in a silken tone. He traversed the richly woven Turkish rug to a mahogany desk and made a brief pretense of studying the book's pages. "An interesting choice of reading for a young lady like you, if you don't mind my saying so."

Looking up, his gaze slid over her body with such deliberate slowness, Jessie was unable to suppress a shiver. Displeasure and disgust tangled her insides into tight knots. Some might consider Simon Grant's gray eyes and patrician features handsome, but not Jessie. She was rapidly learning from experience that there was nothing attractive about this man whatsoever. The refined air he affected—from the top of his perfectly powdered periwig to the tips of his high-heeled, silver buckled shoes—it was all a facade.

The Master of Strathburn was no gentleman.

"Yer father asked me to locate the book," Jessie said as docilely as she could whilst undergoing the horrid man's continued scrutiny. Her father had begged her to control her sharp tongue around the earl and his family…which was easier said than done when she was in the presence of Simon Grant. "As yer mother is otherwise engaged with her seamstress this afternoon, she asked me to spend some time reading to his lordship while he takes tea. This book was his choice."

The Master of Horse's Arses smirked. "I see," he remarked dryly, turning his attention back to the volume.

Wonderful. Now he was going to read the cursed book. Under the cover of her skirts, Jessie began to tap her foot.

Within a few days of their arrival and her father's commencement as factor, the imperious Lady Strathburn had declared that Jessie was to serve as her companion. The countess's winter-gray eyes had regarded her with a peculiar mix of speculation and disdain as she pronounced that Jessie must make herself useful. After all, how could she possibly expect to remain at Lochrose unless she earned her keep? Of course, Jessie could do nothing but acquiesce.

Her father had agreed to the arrangement immediately. He was clearly pleased that Lady Strathburn had developed an apparent interest in his daughter. It also meant Jessie would be spending a considerable amount of time within the castle instead of hiding away in the factor's allocated residence, the Gate House.

And therein was the rub. Jessie strongly suspected her father still harbored the unrealistic hope that Simon Grant may take a romantic interest in her, and that perhaps in time she might make a well-placed marriage after all. But Jessie knew this would never happen—for two reasons.

Firstly, she had nothing to recommend her. A penniless, untitled lass was not marriage material for the Earl of Strathburn's heir.

And secondly, but most importantly, she couldn't stand the man.

Jessie hadn't yet told her father that the Master of Strathburn's interest in her was not the least bit seemly or well-intentioned. He'd had enough stress over the past year, and worrying about her wellbeing was the last thing he needed.

But today's encounter with Simon Grant had been the most invasive by far. Beneath her irritation, Jessie realized she was even a wee bit frightened. Right at this moment, fear prickled along her skin and her heart was hammering uncomfortably against her ribs. Her instincts told her to keep well back from the desk, out of Simon's immediate reach. She really couldn't wait to quit the otherwise deserted library.

"Mmm, the Iliad , the finest example of the epic poem I do believe," drawled the earl's son. Just like his mother, Lady Strathburn, Simon Grant affected the accent of the English upper classes. It made Jessie want to roll her eyes. "However," he continued, "I see this copy by Foulis is in ancient Greek. Tell me, Miss Munroe"—Simon's eyes swept over her again, a questioning smile curving his thin lips as he closed the book—"are you planning on translating it for my father?"

Of course I am. We kept scores of indecipherable texts in ancient languages in Dunraven's library. Jessie bit her tongue to stop the sarcastic retort escaping. Keep ye counsel, lass. Ye dinna want to provoke him. "I'm afraid my linguistic talents dinna extend to that language," she admitted through tight lips. "I wasna aware it was written in Greek, ancient or otherwise."

Simon's cool, calculating gaze dropped to her mouth. "My tongue, on the other hand, is adept, Miss Munroe. I would be delighted to improve your talents in that area, if you are so inclined."

When it's a cold day in hell. Jessie willed herself to ignore Simon's double entendre, but to her chagrin, her cheeks flushed hotly with both indignation and embarrassment. "I'm sure that will no' be necessary, sir," she replied, amazed how her voice kept steady. "But perhaps ye ken of another copy. An English translation?" If she could encourage him to look in the shelves, perhaps he would be diverted enough for her to beat a hasty retreat back to the drawing room and Lord Strathburn.

Simon rounded the desk then leaned his hip against it, all studied nonchalance. "I may have a copy myself. In my private collection," he said, tapping a finger against his lower lip. "Perhaps you could accompany me upstairs to my rooms to help me look for it?"

Jessie's stomach lurched with revulsion. Steeling herself to remain impassive in the face of such an inappropriate suggestion was proving no mean feat. Nevertheless, she lifted her chin and said, "Alas, I fear that I've been far too long already, and I'm keeping Lord Strathburn waiting." Her gaze darted to the desk as she weighed up the risk of taking the Greek version of the Iliad versus leaving it.

Simon's mouth curved into a knowing smile as he placed a proprietorial hand on the dusty cover of the book. He knew she wouldn't go back to his father empty-handed.

Damn him and this cat and mouse game he was playing. He was daring her to come closer to take it.

Well, dare away, sir. Jessie changed tack. "Perhaps I shall just take the other book Lord Strathburn requested. If ye will excuse me, sir." She bobbed a quick curtsy then crossed to the nearest bookshelf and pulled out a random volume. Shakespeare's Macbeth . It would have to do.

She was about to turn from the bookcase and head for the door when she felt Simon behind her, closing off her route. Stupid, stupid. How thoughtless of her not to have kept her eye on him. A cold frisson of unease slid through her, chilling her to the very bone.

Simon leaned over her shoulder. " Macbeth . Another tale of great passion and violence." He was so close, Jessie could feel the brush of his breath against the exposed nape of her neck. The sour odor of the claret he'd partaken with his lunch still lingered, and nausea roiled. She hated feeling so helpless—frozen, like a trapped deer, too afraid to move or breathe.

Where was her anger, now that she needed it?

A lock of her hair had escaped a pin and had fallen forward onto her cheek. At these close quarters, Simon had obviously noticed.

Reaching out, he tucked it back behind her ear, his long fingers trailing slowly down her neck before grasping her shoulder. "In the words of Macbeth , ‘Let not light see my black and dark desires ,'" he whispered into her ear.

Jessie shivered even as her chest tightened in panic. Trapped against the bookcase, she did not dare to turn around.

"Are you cold, Miss Munroe?"

Simon's murmured question prompted a sudden idea to effect an escape. "I'm a wee chill perhaps, sir. I do hope I'm no' catching a cold," she replied then sniffed, loudly.

To Jessie's relief, her ploy worked. Simon immediately took several steps away from her, leaving her room to safely turn around without brushing against him. Lady Strathburn had alluded on more than one occasion that her precious son had a delicate constitution. Jessie had correctly surmised that Simon would be particular about not contracting sickness. Macbeth in hand, she hurried to the library door.

As she grasped the doorknob, Jessie turned her head to make sure Simon wasn't following. Thankfully, he'd retreated to one of the window embrasures, his attention seemingly claimed by the view of Loch Kilburn.

Do no' linger, Jessie. Go . She quietly pulled the door open. But then it creaked.

Damn.

When Simon glanced over his shoulder at her, his gray eyes held a distinct, predatory gleam. A wolf's stare. Jessie's whole body instinctively recoiled and she stumbled over the threshold.

"Good day, Jessie," he murmured as she began to close the door.

She didn't bother to reply. An unwanted book in her hand, her heart in her mouth, she all but fled back to the drawing room.

As soon as Simon heard the door close behind Jessie Munroe, he pulled out a silk kerchief from his coat pocket then sat in the window seat behind his desk. His erection, straining painfully against his breeches, demanded immediate attention.

The maids wouldn't be in to tend the fire and light the candles for at least an hour or two, so he would not be disturbed. And if they did happen to poke their heads in—Simon smirked as he squeezed his rigid length through his clothes—perhaps they could lend him a helping hand.

He'd thought that slaking his lust with the red-headed lass he'd come across on a lonely country lane just outside of the village of Grantown yesterday evening would dull his appetite for Miss Munroe. If anything, it had just made the ache in his loins all the worse, especially when he recalled how the girl had initially struggled and begged him to leave her be.

He liked it when they fought back. He had no doubt that the high-and-mighty Miss Munroe would try to resist him too.

The throbbing in Simon's groin was now urgent. He swiftly unbuttoned the front of his black velvet breeches and closed his eyes, tugging frantically. As his release spread into his waiting silk kerchief, he shuddered and smiled with a mixture of satisfaction and anticipation. As luck would have it, Jessie's father was leaving tomorrow to collect rents and inspect the entirety of the Strathburn estate before winter descended. The excursion also included a trip to Inverness to attend to certain business matters. The journey would not be a short one.

At last, his pretty Jezebel would be alone. He would be able to do whatever he wished.