Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [132]
Marjory hastened to correct him. “Mrs. Kerr, you mean.”
He shrugged. “She’s Bess to me, mem.”
When the butler took his leave, Marjory hoped he might drag the Highlander with him. But Rob tarried in the workroom, standing entirely too close to Elisabeth.
“I hear ye’ve a wedding in the family,” he said, glancing at Anne. “Would that be ye, lass?” Belated introductions were made, then Rob finally moved toward the door. “Ye ken whaur I wark if ye need me, Bess.”
Marjory watched him depart, bristling at his familiar manner. “Does he visit you here often?”
“Once a day,” Elisabeth admitted. “Perhaps twice. His workroom is a mirror of mine on the other side of the kitchen, where the menservants reside.”
“ ’Tis where he belongs,” Marjory said, any charitable thoughts toward Rob well quashed. “You’ll forgive me, Bess, but I do not trust him.”
“Nor do I,” she said, surprising her. “He’s not the man we knew in Edinburgh. The prince’s defeat at Culloden changed him, I fear, and not for the better.” With a sigh she added, “I’ll be relieved when his time at Bell Hill is done.”
“Then why not tell Lord Buchanan how you feel?” Anne urged her. “He’d send the man packing in a trice.” A thread of impatience ran through her words. “Truly, Bess, you need not suffer Mr. MacPherson’s company for another month.”
Elisabeth bent forward in her chair, absently petting the gray cat winding round her feet. “I cannot treat an old friend so harshly, Annie. However bold he may seem, inside he’s a broken man, without home or family or silver. As you say, Rob will be gone by Michaelmas. And you, dear Cousin, will soon be a married woman.”
“So I will,” Anne said, brightening.
Marjory looked away. But I will not.
Fifty-Seven
I can make a lord,
but only God Almighty
can make a gentleman.
JAMES VI OF SCOTLAND
ord Buchanan gazed down the length of his crowded dining room table, wishing not for the first time he’d sought Elisabeth’s counsel before engaging Rob MacPherson. Why had he acted in such haste? He could dismiss the tailor, of course, but justice demanded a cause, and he had none. At least, nothing that was honorable.
I do not like the man. Nae, that was not the issue.
I do not like the way he looks at Bess. Closer to the mark.
Rob MacPherson was simply not worthy of the woman. Not because of his station, but because of his character. What Jack had first perceived as meekness or humility, he now realized was a quiet sort of cunning. And whatever story Mr. MacPherson had invented to explain his appearance, it was clear why he’d come to Bell Hill: to seek the company of Elisabeth Kerr. To capture her heart, perhaps even her hand in marriage when her time of mourning ended.
A pity Jack could not fault the man’s tailoring skills. Roberts was the talk of the household in his new livery. If only the tailor might sew faster—much faster—and finish in a fortnight. Still, they’d struck hands on the bargain. Jack was obliged to see things through, however much it grieved him.
He’d at least made certain Rob MacPherson was placed at the far end of the table for their household supper that evening, while Elisabeth was where she belonged: here, close by his side.
Jack smiled at her. “You’ve done something different with your hair.” He lightly touched a wispy curl that trailed down her neck. Her long, graceful neck. “I believe the sun has added a bit of color to your cheeks.”
More color appeared, a rosy tint.
He pulled back at once. “I beg your pardon.”
“No need to apologize,” she murmured. “I blush rather easily.”
While she sipped her claret, Jack studied her profile. The generous mouth, the patrician nose, the large, luminous eyes. If he could be certain of Elisabeth’s present feelings regarding Mr. MacPherson, the month ahead might be easier. She’d convinced him there was no romantic attachment. “Not on my part,” she’d said, and Jack believed her. But the two Highlanders had a long history together. Shared experiences often tipped the scale.
Then throw something