Chapter 3

O n Jessie's return to the drawing room, it was to find Lord Strathburn fast asleep in his favorite chair before the fire. Beside him on the hearthrug lay his devoted deerhound, Caesar. Neither stirred at her entry. She'd obviously been too long in the library. Hopefully, the earl wouldn't be too annoyed with her when he awoke.

A half-drunk cup of tea sat on a small cherrywood table at Lord Strathburn's elbow. Sneaking a cup from the fine-bone china teapot to calm her jangled nerves was indeed tempting—Jessie's stomach still churned and her hands wouldn't stop trembling—but the risk of being caught taking such a liberty by the countess made her think better of it. She really didn't want to jeopardize her father's position.

With a shaky sigh, Jessie sank onto the window seat, discarding Macbeth onto the brocade cushion beside her. Outside, the mirror-like surface of Loch Kilburn reflected the fiery wooded braes and azure-blue sky. It was the type of autumn day just perfect for riding.

But not for her. Not anymore. Gone were the days when she could saddle Blaeberry whenever she liked to ride out and explore the countryside. The longing to be as free as the eagle presently swooping over the loch was suddenly so acute, tears misted Jessie's vision. Perhaps early tomorrow, before Lady Strathburn made a claim on her time, she could sneak away for a ride. It was also the day that her father would be leaving.

The thought passed like a dark cloud across Jessie's mind.

The idea of spending even a full day alone at Lochrose without her father's protection, let alone a fortnight, made her inwardly shudder, especially after Simon's lecherous conduct in the library just now. But to make matters worse—and despite her protestations—her father had arranged for her to stay not in the Gate House, but up at the castle during his absence. It would be almost impossible to avoid Simon.

Cold dread snaked down Jessie's spine at the thought of the coming days. And nights. She didn't know if she would be able to tolerate the man's unwanted attentions for much longer. The urge to knee him in the nether regions, or even plunge something sharp like a toasting fork into his person, was well-nigh overwhelming.

But for the sake of her father, she must bury her irritation and trepidation and carry on as though nothing at all was amiss. She didn't have the heart to tell her dear da about Simon's advances, just when his spirits seemed so much improved.

Why, only just this morning during breakfast he'd reported with a wide smile that the earl was a most canny and fair employer. Jessie knew that if she did tell her father what was really going on, he would be infuriated with the earl's son and would want to depart straightaway, effectively ending their employment. And then what would they do?

Positions such as these were few and far between, and destitution was hardly an inviting prospect.

With a heavy sigh, Jessie dashed away her useless tears and firmed her resolve. Regardless of how unpleasant life was at Lochrose, she would just have to swallow her frustrations and somehow soldier on.

Glancing over at Lord Strathburn, Jessie could see he was still snoring quietly. His head rested against the side of his leather wingback chair and a woolen blanket was draped over his knees. His silver-topped walking stick rested against the chair's arm. Despite her own cares, she smiled softly. He was a charming man—nothing at all like his son—and perhaps only a decade older than her father. Yet, in many ways, he seemed at least twenty years older.

The castle's cook, Mrs. MacMillan, had recounted the sad story of the earl's decline over tea and scones in the kitchen on Jessie's first morning at Lochrose.

"The good man never recovered after his eldest son, Robert, rode out with the Young Pretender at Culloden. It broke his heart when Lord Lochrose chose to join the Rebellion."

Oh… "Wouldna Lord Lochrose have put his family in jeopardy?" asked Jessie. "If the English forces suspected that Lord Strathburn was a supporter of the Jacobite cause as well?"

"Without a doubt," said Mrs. MacMillan sagely. "Only Lord Strathburn is canny and publicly disowned Robert. He didna really have any other choice, or else the entire estate could verra well have been forfeited to the Crown. Given that Robert has disappeared, Master Simon will undoubtedly inherit everything when the earl passes. Which I'm sure pleases her ladyship no end." The cook had winked at Jessie in a conspiratorial fashion. "Though ye didna hear that from me, lassie."

Curious about the fate of the earl's oldest son, Jessie had ventured, "I apologize if this question seems indelicate, Mrs. MacMillan, but…does the family know what became of Lord Lochrose at Culloden? I've heard it was a terrible battle."

Mrs. MacMillan patted her arm with a floury hand. "Och, it's all right to ask, lassie. It's no' often talked about here, ye ken, given what passed between Lord Lochrose and his father was such a tragedy—the way they fell out with each other. Rumor has it that the canny wee devil managed to escape the battlefield and left Scotland. But it's been ten years, so nobody really kens where he ended up or how he's fared after all this time." The cook's expression grew thoughtful. "If Robert has survived, I'm certain his lordship would be verra happy to have him home once more. But unless the Sassenachs take the price off his head"—Mrs. MacMillan shrugged—"he willna be able to set foot on Scottish soil again. Better to live in exile than end up meeting the same fate as poor Fraser of Lovat."

Jessie had to agree. Although she'd only been fourteen years old at the time, she still recalled how shocked her father had been when Fraser of Lovat, the chief of one of their neighboring clans, had been beheaded at the Tower of London in 1747 for his role in the Rebellion. The English did not easily forgive or forget Scottish traitors. In recent times she'd heard of pardons being granted in rare instances—young MacDonald of Clanranald had been one such case. But by and large, acts of clemency were few and far between.

"But thank heaven for small mercies." Mrs. MacMillan had given Jessie a warm smile. "I thank the Lord yer father has come. It's about time Lord Strathburn passed the runnin' of things over to a manager before Lady Strathburn and the young master go through the family's entire fortune and spend all our wages." The cook blew out a heavy sigh. "It never used to be this way, ye ken."

Mrs. MacMillan, obviously a keen orator, refilled their teacups at this point before continuing to reminisce. "It seems like only yesterday that Robert was here. A fine man in the making he was. He took after his lordship, in looks and temperament. Charming and full o' good humor. Fair minded with the staff and tenants and a natural born leader. Everyone thought verra well o' him." The cook's brown eyes twinkled. "A bonnie man to look at too, he was. Och, all the lassies were turning their heads for Lord Lochrose. Why, he even made an old piece o' mutton like me flush and jibber when he looked my way. Quite the rake he would have been. If he'd stayed, he'd be wed by now to be sure, with a few wee bairns underfoot."

She grasped Jessie's hand and looked her in the eye, suddenly serious. "Now Master Simon, he's quite a different kettle o' fish. Ye must needs be careful around him for if he likes the look of a bonnie lassie such as yerself… Weel, let's just say, the other female staff have dubbed him ‘Master of the Wanderin' Hands' if ye ken what I mean. Though, ye have yer father here, so he may no' think it wise to try any such nonsense with you."

If only it were so .

The sound of a birch log falling in the grate pulled Jessie from her reverie. An early portrait of the earl hung over the fireplace in the drawing room. Tired of sitting idly, she crossed the room to study it.

It was hard to reconcile the weak and broken man slumbering behind her with the braw and confident looking clan chief in the painting. The younger version of Lord Strathburn had been very handsome, she decided. Even though the earl's countenance was now deeply lined with age, one thing about him hadn't changed—the deep blue eyes looking down at her from the portrait had a familiar lively spark in their depths. There was little resemblance between the earl and Simon, who favored his mother in looks.

She suddenly wondered what Robert Grant, Lord Lochrose, looked like, and if he had indeed been as attractive as Mrs. MacMillan claimed. Not that she would ever meet the man.

Turning to face the room once more, Jessie noticed that the earl had shifted slightly in his sleep and the blanket had slipped off his knees. As she bent to retrieve it, she spied something lying on the floor next to the earl's discarded walking stick. It was a small, round silver case, like a pocket watch, suspended from a chain. His lordship must have dropped it in his slumber.

Picking it up with the intention of returning it to the side table, the clasp unlatched in Jessie's fingers revealing not a timepiece, but a small portrait. It was of a young man in his late adolescence or early twenties. Perhaps this was the earl's long-lost eldest son…

If it was, Mrs. MacMillan had been right. Robert Grant, Viscount Lochrose, had been extraordinarily handsome. One might even say he'd been beautiful. Rather than wearing a powdered peruke like most aristocrats, Lord Lochrose had worn his dark brown hair clubbed at the nape of his neck. Just like the earl, he possessed arresting midnight-blue eyes that contained a devilish twinkle. In fact, as Jessie examined the miniature painting more closely, she could definitely see a marked resemblance between the young man's features and Lord Strathburn's. There was something similar in the lines of the straight nose and strong square jaw and the curve of his wide mouth—a mouth that was tilted into a lopsided smile as if he were secretly amused.

Without thinking, Jessie gently touched the portrait with the tip of her finger. She was sure Lord Lochrose would have made her blush and stammer, too.

The sound of Lady Strathburn's voice in the hall outside startled Jessie from her musing. She hurriedly clicked the portrait's silver case shut before depositing it into one of the earl's hands. Even though he was asleep, his fingers closed around the case reflexively, possessively.

Jessie stepped away just as Lady Strathburn swept into the room. In the countess's wake followed her harried looking seamstress.

"Now, Miss Munroe, what have you been up to all this while?" Lady Strathburn's cold gray eyes flickered over Jessie, then her husband who was now stirring. She didn't wait for Jessie to reply. "Not much I see. We must keep you busy. You can assist Mrs. Beattie with her sewing for the rest of the afternoon."

"Aye, milady." Jessie forced herself to bob a quick curtsy. It was difficult to maintain a respectful manner around the countess when she behaved so arrogantly…which was most of the time.

She began to take her leave, but the countess raised her hand. "Wait a moment." Lady Strathburn's eyes narrowed as she made a blatantly scathing appraisal of Jessie's serviceable gown of brown wool.

The countess herself was always expensively and tastefully dressed. A tall woman of middle age, she'd kept her handsome figure well. This afternoon she wore a panniered silk gown striped with lavender, cream, and leaf green. Cream Bruges lace cascaded from her sleeves and a fichu of lavender chiffon was pinned over her ample bosom with an elaborate pearl brooch. Like her son, she adhered to the fashion of wearing a powdered wig. Today her artfully arranged ringlets were dusted with a lavender hued powder to complement her dress.

Her perusal complete, the countess added in a clipped tone that brooked no argument, "Might I suggest you do something about the state of your own wardrobe, Miss Munroe? I have been meaning to mention it to you since you arrived. If you wish to continue attending on our family, you must attire yourself in something more suitable than drab gowns that have seen better days. Why, our scullery maid is more presentable. Have Mrs. Beattie measure you up for at least five dresses and matching accoutrements."

Jessie's cheeks flamed with barely concealed shame. "With the greatest respect, milady, I-I have limited means and canna afford more than a gown or two?—"

"That is not my concern," Lady Strathburn said with a derisive sniff. "I'm sure the price of your new wardrobe can simply be deducted from your father's salary if you cannot pay."

"Caroline, you will do no such thing."

The countess whirled around to see that her husband had risen from his seat. Even though the earl was leaning heavily on his walking stick and his eyes were slightly puffy with sleep, his expression was nothing but determined.

Turning to Jessie, he addressed her in his soft Scots burr. "Choose anything you want, my dear lass, anything at all. Mrs. Beattie may just add it to Lady Strathburn's account."

Jessie shook her head. "That is far too generous, milord. I dinna think?—"

"Now, now. Think nothing of it, Miss Munroe," the earl said with a smile, his eyes regarding her with genuine warmth. "Just indulge the whim of an old man who would've liked to have had a daughter of his own."

"Well…thank ye, milord." Jessie returned his smile. His unexpected kindness brought tears to her eyes and she curtsied with a bowed head so he wouldn't see her unseemly rush of emotion.

As Jessie turned to follow Mrs. Beattie from the room, her gaze locked momentarily with Lady Strathburn's. The look in the older woman's eyes was so venomous, Jessie's nape prickled with cold dread. The Countess of Strathburn did not take well to being crossed.

Life at Lochrose was proving to be more perilous with each passing day.